Orphaned Slave
by British Child
Summary: Sickfic. Young Harry falls ill. :: He let out a gasp as he felt something cold and solid touch the bridge of his nose, and he shut his eyes firmly from fear, preparing himself for the pain that was to hit. ::
1. Misunderstood

_Orphaned Slave_

_Misunderstood_

**_Category: _**_Harry Potter_

**_Genre: _**_Drama/Angst_

**_Rating: _**_PG_

**_Characters: _**_Harry Potter, Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley, Dudley Dursley_

**_Summary: _**_Sick-fic. Eight-year old Harry Potter falls ill at his relatives house, during one of his previous working days. Will his aunt and uncle help him through it, or will he even tell them? Rated PG for mild language._

**_Disclaimer: _**_I don't own anything, just borrowing._

_(A/N: Another HP story. Though, this isn't my idea that inspired me to write this, that belongs to my close friend (the one who helps me beta-read my fics, lol, oh, how she does a splendid job at it), so she deserves half of the credit. She is addicted to 'sick-fics', as she likes to call them, and so she came up with this. Enjoy!  
  
Oh, I don't own rights to the characters, I'm just borrowing them for my pleasure.)_

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The front door slammed open one afternoon, a sunny and pleasant day it was and was hoping to last into the night. Though the day had been peaceful for what it was, the new disturbance may have been enough to break all of that. The collision of the door against the wall was enormously loud, and made the house almost shake. It was likely that plaster was next to fall if it happened again.

This was not unusual for any ordinary day at the Dursley house. Nine-year-old Dudley bounced into the kitchen, chubby for a child though his mother denied the cautious comments from her closest friends during visits.

He immediately began raiding the cupboards, searching madly and his face rather red from hurrying home so quickly. While he was busy bombarding the cabinets, a skinny young character slinked into the door after him, his head down and looking quite miserable. Stepping inside a lot quieter, he softly shut the door behind him, and stared at the floor.

Dudley was panting. "Where's Mum and Dad?"

The skinny boy shrugged. "I don't know." His voice was tight and his eyes were downcast, he wasn't looking up.

Pushing past him roughly with an exasperated groan, Dudley made it into the hallway, his voice thundering up the stairs as he shouted for his parents. He left the figure alone in the kitchen, staring after him.

Harry finally looked up, his expression terrible. He had never wanted a day to end at that horrible school so long in his life. He hated it, and everyone knew. All of his teachers thought him a bother, and even they could never quite realise how an eight-year old could cause all that.

As far as Harry knew, he hadn't done a thing. According to the school, he had several warnings and notices that he was beginning to turn accident-prone, but he didn't understand why. He didn't know why things just seemed to happen whenever he was around, but the children appeared to think that it was his entire fault, and stayed away from him, sometimes they often hit him.

"I didn't _do_ it!" he always protested. "I don't know how it happened!"

The teachers never believed him. If they had a choice, they obviously wouldn't, for his 'excuses' sounded as common as any other child hoping to get out of trouble and be pardoned for what he'd done. He was always punished, though now this was such a regular thing that it annoyed Harry to the brink.

"I'm telling the truth!" he would continue, his temper boiling. "I _am!"_

It was most likely that something else would happen afterwards, which just gained his further explanation; of course that Harry couldn't give. Nobody seemed or even wanted to listen to him. Often he felt invisible, never mind being different.

He wondered if he could somehow make it into his cupboard before his aunt began hammering on about the school complaints, he remembered his teacher threatening to phone his home and tell her what he had done. But he knew that he hadn't done anything, and no matter how hard he tried to make others believe him, he knew that he wasn't going to get very far with anyone.

He could already hear much talk upstairs; he wondered how much Dudley was lying to his mother about his success in school. She was probably gushing over him so much that it comforted him to the end of his life.

Sighing humbly, Harry slipped past into the hallway and locked himself inside his cupboard, of which he slept under the stairs. The darkness seemed to calm him down, it kept him protected and he didn't even bother to turn on the light. He flopped down onto his dusty bed and stared blankly at the wall in front of him.

His throat tightening again, he raised a gentle hand upwards, away from his lap and shakily placed it on his arm, upon which laid a mighty bruise.

**_:--:_**

"What are you up to today, boy?" Harry's uncle Vernon spat while he was sitting at the kitchen table with squinty eyes, watching his small nephew. Today, he had decided to wake up looking like a very ripe beetroot, his large, beefy face red and puffy. He scowled and tapped his fingers on the table.

Harry had and never understood why his relatives hated him so much. He hadn't asked to be here on purpose, he kept saying time and time again that none of it was his fault, that he didn't know what he was doing to be a nuisance. He had even had the daring to ask his aunt why he bothered them, and she had snapped in his face to not be so difficult and…

…stop asking questions.

That had to be the worst of it. He couldn't even find a sensible reason for it. They made him do everything for them, ordering him about as if he had been paid for the job. It was often that Harry wondered if they could even take care of themselves. He was just a slave in this house, that's all he was.

He was standing on tiptoe in the corner of the room, trying to clear up a mess that Dudley had left while trying to reach something that had been too high for him. He hadn't bothered to clean it up, though. Not Dudley. He didn't have to do anything if he didn't feel like it. He left that all for Harry.

Even though Harry was the youngest member in the house, he acted the older. It seemed that maturity had gained him at a young age, and he had taken to responsibilities quicker than most children his year, often because he had to look after and take care of himself.

He shifted about uncomfortably. "Um…"

"Don't you _'Um'_ me! Can't you answer a simple question?" Vernon bellowed.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Nothing, Uncle Vernon," he said in a quiet voice. He knew best not to argue. It was the weekend now, and chores would probably be thrown a million at him, it wasn't unlikely. Even if he had managed an excuse, it wouldn't be worthy enough. Now that Harry was growing up, this was a perfect reason to be shown all of the work to be done, whether he liked it or not.

Of course, it was no surprise that Dudley did nothing. He never helped.

A few moments silence followed. Harry wondered if his uncle had even heard that he had spoken. Turning his head around away from the mess, he stared for a response, but received none. His rather high voice spoke up, a little louder. "I said that I'm doing _nothing,_ Uncle - "

"I _know_ what you said!" Vernon roared, finally looking up. "Do you take me to be deaf, boy? _Do you!"_

"Well, no - "

"Then come over here!" Now Vernon's face could have passed the likeness of a fresh tomato, he seemed furious…although Harry quite knew that he wasn't. His uncle Vernon always went red when he shouted; Harry had learnt at a young age that it was not clever to laugh whenever it happened.

"What for?" he asked slowly.

"Don't ask questions!" Vernon snapped. "It doesn't matter what for, just get over here, _now!_ Do what you're told for a change!"

Harry's shoulders slumped as the spillage was clumsily cleaned up with a cloth, and then put in for the wash. He stared down at his hands, which were covered in the mess and tried to wipe them off on his trousers, something that all children did.

Vernon was becoming impatient. _"Now!"_ he yelled.

"I am," Harry started, picking up another cloth and attempting to clean his palms, which now felt as if they had become smothered in glue. "I just have to wipe down my hands, they're all sticky!"

"Deal with it!" Vernon spat unkindly. "Just get here!"

Harry scrubbed his hands as best as he could and stumbled over to his uncle, who was looking quite murderous now. Vernon pointed out into the garden towards the shed, where a few buckets were gathered outside the door, and frowned up at his nephew, his moustache twitching.

"Sometime today," he said coldly, "I want the shed to have a fresh coat of paint – _neatly,_ mind! Don't take too long, either; I want you to weed your aunt's prize patch when you're done. Do you think you can manage that?"

Harry wanted to reply; "Can't _you?"_ but he didn't think it would be wise. Instead, he stared out into the garden looking confused. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he began, his voice not noticing the danger. "But what are the buckets for?"

"Buckets!" Vernon screeched, clouting Harry sharply on the back of the head. "Those aren't buckets, they're paint cans! What's wrong with you? You wear glasses, don't you? Still blind, are you?"

Harry rubbed the back of his head, and stared up at Vernon. So they weren't buckets, after all. They had looked like them though, it was an easy mistake. His voice stuttered, as if deciding his answer. "Yes, Uncle Vernon – I mean, no, Uncle Vernon – I mean - "

"Well, which _do_ you mean?" Vernon erupted, his forehead scarlet.

Harry, now feeling rather cornered, spoke up logically. "Which question do you want me to answer, Uncle Vernon? You asked two different ones."

"What! I never _did!"_

"Yes, yes you did! You asked me if I wear glasses, which I do…and then you asked me if I was blind, which I'm not! I couldn't answer both at the same time!" It was moments like this where Harry could simply not understand his uncle, trying to muddle him with questions. Yet, he was hardly allowed to ask one, as he'd been told nearly every hour.

Uncle Vernon lowered his eyes to frown at Harry. Harry just stared back, looked dubious and quizzical, though he was set on his answer and was not going to back down from it.

"Don't act clever with me, boy," Vernon snarled. "Just make sure it's done today, as you seemed to vanish off yesterday afternoon when our Dudley came home. I don't want you to make any mistakes, do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"Good. Don't you forget it."

Harry marched off towards his cupboard, shooting a glare behind his shoulder at his uncle as he left. It was times like this he really wanted to kick something.

**_{To be continued}_**

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_(A/N: The first chapter is done! I'm sorry if things are picking up a little slowly, Harry doesn't fall ill in the first part. That will happen later, but how, I won't tell. Please R&R, I'll be telling my friend of the news, and we'll work out the next part as soon as possible! Thanks!)_


	2. Struck Down

_Struck Down_

_(A/N: Another chapter. This is where the story begins to get into it a little. Thanks for the reviews that I got from my first instalment! Yes, this story will be rather long.)_

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"Out, boy! Out, out, _out!"_

"I'm _going!"_ Harry called back, scurrying under his uncle's watchful eyes as he frowned down at him, clapping his hands over his head and marching him out of the house. He was off to paint the shed like Vernon had told him to, and according to Harry he had made perfect time and hadn't left it for too long.

His Aunt Petunia and Dudley had arrived home from shopping moments after his confrontation in the kitchen, and right now outside seemed a comfort. It was open and free, and away from his relatives. He didn't care if he had to do chores, it got him some distance. It was when thoughts like this ran through his head if he really hated them, or not.

Harry stumbled down the path as he tripped over the back door frame, and made his way down the garden. The shed suddenly seemed so much bigger than Harry had remembered, it loomed over him…strong and tall. Thinking back to the tiny shed he had looked upon after his uncle's pointing finger, he shook his head slowly and stepped up to the paint cans.

"Oh, no." They too, were also rather large. They looked heavy too, sitting there on the path staring up at him, as if laughing and knowing that this task was impossible for him. They carried the same colour as the shed held now; apparently Vernon didn't want a change.

Harry lowered himself to his knees and stared at the colour printed on the can. His lips read the words and he spoke them aloud, whispering under his breath. _"Marron…_oh, great. Uncle Vernon wanted _brown!_ He must have picked the wrong can," he sighed, straightening up to his feet and staring down in dismay.

Now what would he do? He suddenly felt afraid to try asking for other cans that could be lying around. A sick feeling began to gather in his stomach but he forced it down, his throat tightening. Then his eye contact returned to the paint.

Well, the colour _looked_ brown. Harry wondered if his uncle would even notice. He couldn't quite say that he had chosen the wrong shade for the job, maybe the words were mixed up or something. It could as well be the correct paint tone; he certainly wasn't going to go back.

Harry picked up the brush lying on top of one of the cans, and twirled it in his fist thoughtfully, his mouth pinched together. He could paint, he found it rather easy. But a whole _shed…_he'd never done that before. He glanced up at it again, swallowing. Then he frowned.

Getting the paint can open was tricky. Harry had to pry his fingernails under the rim and pull as hard as he could manage. The effort was hard for his smaller arms, and the metal often scratched the bases of his fingertips. He bit his lip and gritted his teeth as he struggled, giving the tin serious death glares.

Finally, the top popped off with one final tug, sending Harry flying onto his back, rather firmly. He gasped in surprise and sat up straight, staring into the sick brown colour of the paint. It looked almost like mud; a boggy puddle and small bubbles lay on the surface.

Picking his brush from the floor, he dived it into the colour, sending tiny droplets spraying onto his trousers. He then got to work painting, stroking the wood up and down in a vertical motion with the brush, just as he'd been told to do by his uncle. It wasn't as easy as he thought, being as the same colour he found that it was hard to tell which areas he'd painted or not.

But he was managing. The sun grew hotter as noon drew in close, making the job even more unbearable, and causing Harry to feel more uncomfortable as the time stretched on and on. His knees began to ache as he bend down to load up his brush with more paint, and his little body began to feel very unnerving.

"Would've been easier with buckets," he grumbled under his breath, sloshing some of the foul-looking mess by accident onto the garden path.

**_:--:_**

Time seemed to drag so slowly for Harry that day. He had painted the bottom half of the infernal shed by closing afternoon, and was now managing to weed his aunt's garden patch whilst he waited for it to dry. He took his quiet time to consider his annoyance for what had happened at school the previous day. It really hadn't been his fault.

Dudley's best friend at school, Piers Polkis…who often reminded Harry of a rat, had dared him to climb a tree in the school field. Harry, who had begun to think that it might be some sort of trick, had refused at first, but had quickly bolted up its branches as both Dudley and Piers had started to march towards him threateningly.

He had done it, and Piers hadn't been impressed. Knowing that if Harry could have climbed it, he most certainly would have been able to, but as soon as he grabbed for one of the highest branches, it just didn't seem to be there anymore. Harry had stared in amazement as Piers took a tumble down onto his backside, knowing for a fact that he had grabbed that very branch as he had scurried up earlier.

He had just been thinking too, how angry he was at both of them for daring him to climb the tree in the first place, and it just sort of happened.

Just like that.

He had taken a punch for it too, being held by Piers by the arms as Dudley swung out. He hadn't broken down; he hadn't shown them any pain. He just took the hit as if it was a regular thing, as if it happened every day for him.

That bruise he still had…that had appeared because of that time. That was the main reason why he had avoided his cousin coming in from school. He didn't want Dudley to know he had bruised him; it would only make him feel stronger and bolder. Partly because he didn't want his cousin to hold any pride out of it.

That was another thing that Harry had learnt over the years, it wasn't helping if you cried over everything that happened to you. It annoyed others, and it just made them feel a lot more powerful to see their victim crumble. As he grew, he had known it best to hide his tears, away from the cruel world around him.

He was really beginning to hate going to school. He didn't know why, mainly it was because of the feeling that nobody liked him; nobody tried to make friends with him for fear of Dudley's wrath.

He sighed miserably, and pulled up another weed.

**_:--:_**

Harry felt water on his face. Soft drips cascading down upon his cheeks and trickling down his neck. It was cold, almost like ice, and he shivered. The darkness was against him, as the water fell past his glasses. He opened his eyes to a speckled world…

…and gasped.

It was raining. But how…he should have _known!_ Deep puddles settled on the path and his aunt's flowerbed was flooded. Near yonder, towards the back of the garden, the shed was in streaks as the new paint soaked through. The grass was tingling and mingled with dew.

Harry was soaking.

His hair was matted to his forehead and his clothes were drenched. They felt heavy and weighed him down as he tried to move. He felt stiff and cold, and he scrambled to his feet as he wiped down his face, rubbing his numb cheeks.

His heart rose in his chest with panic as he eyed the shed. Rushing over to it, he found to his relief that he had closed the lids of the paint cans, so they did not water the mixture down. He hid them behind the side of the wall and looked with a heavy feeling at the work.

It didn't seem so bad…he could paint it again when it cleared up a little. Now that rainwater dripped off his hair and down his nose, he wiped his forehead with his soaking sleeve and fled back to the door of the house.

How could he have fallen asleep in the rain? It seemed pretty silly now that he thought about it…he could only imagine trying to explain it to his relatives. Wrapping his arms around himself, he ran with sopping trainers to the door, his breath came out in a light fog as he took hold of the handle and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Harry's eyes grew wide with shock as he tried again, and again to open the door. But it still never budged. "No," he whispered out, tugging on the door with all his might, feeling the last despair groan out of his body.

The door was locked. He was locked outside, with the rain and the cold. How could his uncle forget to bring him in when the weather began to darken? Didn't anyone think that he could be caught out in the shower whilst he was still at work?

Maybe Vernon _hadn't_ forgotten. Maybe this was a reminder to stay on the job and not fall asleep, as a sort of punishment. Harry felt his mind scream as he pounded now on the door, wanting to shout but thought it best not to. His throat was so tight that it was hurting him, and he choked back on a shiver as he knocked his hardest.

The rain continued to fall down, down in sheets that pelted Harry's little body until it looked as if he had been swimming. The jacket of Dudley's that he was wearing fell past his smaller arms, and his socks were wet inside his shoes. He couldn't feel his toes and he could sense they were numb too.

He offered one feebler knock on the door as a last hope, and was still holding up his hand to try again when the door swung open violently. Still shaking, Harry looked up into the face of his aunt at her astonished cry. It was probably surprising for her, seeing a wet creature standing at her door, dripping to the bone.

However, the reaction was different to what Harry thought that cry was for. He thought that she was horrified to see him so wet and cold, so shocked that he had been left outside all of that time without anyone to let him in, so distraught that his clothes were soggy and his body was shivering.

There was always a 'however' though, in Harry's life.

Petunia let out another shriek, unable to believe her eyes. _"You!"_ she cried, gasping down at her nephew. _"Look_ at you! You're not fit to be _seen!"_ she wrenched out an arm and grabbed Harry by the shoulder, dragging his wet form into the kitchen, his teeth chattering so loud that he could hear it in his head.

Petunia was scolding him so badly that Harry stopped listening after a while. She made it sound like that he had brought it on himself, which, when Harry reminded himself that it was partly his fault for falling asleep anyway. A towel was thrown at him and he quickly began to rub down his hair.

"Why are you so wet?" Petunia demanded. "Why didn't you have the sense…the ideal _sense_ to come indoors when the rain began?" Her eyes were burning; Harry couldn't remember the last time she had flared up so quickly as this. Her hands were on her hips and she glared down at him as if she had noticed a stubborn spot on the carpet.

Harry found his voice in a hushed squeak. "Fell…fell…" he shuddered.

"You fell? In the ocean, was it then?" she shouted back.

Shaking his head, Harry wiped the drips from his cheeks. "No…no, I-I fell…"

"Oh, fine – stick to your impertinent story!" his aunt snapped back, cutting him off before he had a chance to finish. "I don't want you dripping everywhere – here!" she threw another towel at him. "Get yourself dried up!"

Harry made the best of it, rubbing down most of his clothes and skin, until he was only damp instead of drenched. He retreated back to his cupboard, searching for some new garments, as he couldn't bear the thought of having to wear what he had for the rest of the day.

He locked himself in, and was alone in the quiet. Turning the light on, he quickly stripped himself of his wet shirt, jacket and trousers and left them aside to dry whilst he changed. He had to go without wearing shoes for a while, as his socks had soaked through to nothing and his trainers were heavy with water.

He shivered again, looking about the room, his hair still drying as it stuck up at the back. Turning back towards the cupboard door, he drew himself in as he hugged his knees, his chest shuddering as his breathing racked from the cold.

He had tried to tell what had happened, but maybe nobody would have believed him if he had managed to explain. Letting out a huge sigh, he turned and listened to the rain pattering outside the house…it was that loud.

_So loud…_how could he have slept through it?

He rested his head on his knees, feeling terrible, and listened to the sounds in the house as he sat in silence. Footsteps on the carpet, a humming sound here and there, and the coming and going of people on the stairs.

Harry gave off another violent tremble as the door slammed, his heart falling into his stomach and yet jumping into his throat at the same time. He reached a shaky hand out for the light, and turned it off, his relief growing.

No one would find him in there.

**_To be continued_**

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_(A/N: As you can see, poor Harry is beginning to feel neglected. I suppose I would too, but this story isn't about me, lol. Thank you for all of the reviews I got for the first chapter, I hope to get as much feedback from this one, but I'm only hoping. : smile : Please, please R&R!)_


	3. Under the Weather

_Under the Weather_

_(A/N: Here's another chapter for this story. I don't own the characters, honestly! Did you all enjoy Halloween? I went as Boromir, it was great – everyone knew who I was! Lol. I hope you all like this chapter!)_

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It had been a terrible morning. Harry hadn't wanted it to arrive as he had woken in the early hour. He felt horrible, not in with himself but as his body went. He could barely sit up for aches and his head constantly pounded in his ears. His throat felt dry and his eyes were sore and stiff.

What was wrong with him? It sometimes hurt to even swallow.

He didn't feel as if he could be sick literally, he just felt tired and worn down. He was shivering occasionally, and it racked his body numb with cold. He wondered now if he had been placed in the less heated place of the house, it felt like it to him. He tried to sit up in his bed, but it seemed as though everything was spinning.

Little Harry rubbed his eyes to rid of some of the stiffness. It was Sunday, another long day for him usually. But today, he felt as if it could be a challenge to walk. He pictured telling his uncle how he felt.

Maybe it was because of the rain, he hoped it was only that and nothing more than a head cold. He had had colds before, they went away in time. It may even be his punishment for sleeping out in the storm – how stupid could he have been? He didn't really want any sympathy for this…he just wanted to sleep away into nothing.

But he felt as if he couldn't. Not now, he was freezing and that made things difficult. It might only be temporary anyway. As he listened hard for life in the house, and tried to imagine how the weather would appear to him, he slumped backwards on his bed, burying his head in the pillow.

"Please let it be nothing…" he whispered, as sleep slowly took him.

**_:--:_**

_Rap! Rap!_ The noise was disturbed for Harry as his aunt knocked loudly on his cupboard door. It sounded to him as if she was rather hysterical; her voice was burning with a peculiar anger.

"Get up! Do you know what time it is?" she snapped.

Harry's eyes slurred as he shifted in bed uncomfortably. He didn't feel a great deal better, he wasn't sure how he had even fallen back to sleep. Still, he wondered what he would say if he ignored his aunt and tried again. Yawning, he spoke up. "No…no, Aunt Petunia – sorry…"

"Well, you have a reason to be! I want you out of there and dressed in two minutes – and if you _dare_ to take too long…" She sounded terrible. Almost as if Harry challenged himself to step foot into the hallway he would be pummelled within an inch of his life. She hadn't yet got over the fact that he had slept outside.

"All right…" he groaned, his arms aching.

One final knock on the door and she was gone. Harry settled into silence, the cold still pounding on his nerves. He wished he wouldn't be sick. His aunt and uncle, even Dudley would do nothing for it, they would just tell him to stop complaining and clear his head by working, or something ridiculous like that.

It took Harry longer than two minutes to get ready, though. Even though he hurried, he found it hard to focus and he was forever sniffling. He was for sure that he had a cold, and he cursed himself for it. He had brought it on himself…this was his own fault.

Quickly as he could he changed into new clothes, _warm_ clothes…as he shivered by wearing thin shirts. He thought that his relatives would seem him odd as to wear these things indoors, but what else could he do to keep snug? He had gone without heat most of the night as it was. At least his socks were dry, and his shoes.

He figured that he must have overslept. Petunia hadn't been too happy with his timing when she had woken him; he hoped that it wasn't as late as he thought. Maybe ten minutes or so, it had always been a huge thing for them…lateness.

Giving another sniff, he dragged himself into the kitchen. He felt drowsy and sore, and his throat still felt dry. He didn't feel like breakfast, even though he had to make it for everyone else, he couldn't possibly think of tucking in. He knew maybe eating something was for the best, but wondering on it made him feel queasy.

"What time do you call this?" Petunia wanted to know.

Harry rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, trying to avoid her stare. "Um…"

Vernon was already at the kitchen table, reading yesterday's paper. Harry had never understood why he did that; he always thought it was strange. At this point in his nephew's hesitation, Vernon slammed it down on the table. He was obviously not too happy either. "Why are you always saying that _'Um'_ sound? It gets annoying always hearing it from you, boy!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon," Harry squeaked.

"So what time is it?"

Harry looked blearily up at the clock and squinted. "Just gone ten," he said.

"I beg your pardon?" his uncle bellowed.

"Just gone ten…_o' clock,_ Uncle Vernon," Harry corrected, hoping that he didn't sound too frustrated. The truth was, he wasn't. If he was frustrated with anyone it was himself, he felt simply awful and he kept repeating what had happened yesterday in his head, wondering if there could have been a chance to finish most of the work and come in before the storm began.

At that moment, Dudley had come bouncing in, bumping into Harry's elbow a little too roughly and demanding deafeningly in his ear; "I want bacon!"

Harry sighed and got on with it. He wasn't out to argue, he just wanted this day to go by…it was always worse on the first day for colds…he had had them in the past. He quickly hid a cough, his throat painful. He grew frightened at the noise…it sounded rather odd.

"What in the blazes…are you _coughing,_ boy?" Vernon asked.

"Yes," Harry said hurriedly. "A little. Don't worry, I've stopped now."

"Well, good," Petunia cut in, eyeing Harry with disgust. "I surely hope you haven't caught anything. Heaven knows if it got around…"

"I'm fine," Harry told them. "Really." He swallowed hard as a spasm of fear shivered up his body, and served up the breakfast for the others. Shortly afterwards, since he didn't think he could eat anything at all, he made a quick drink for his throat. It seemed to help, but only a little.

Afterwards, he sat down in the living room with only Dudley for company, while he waited for his aunt and uncle to finish breakfast. Harry sniffed to himself and Dudley heard it. He turned to look at him suspiciously.

"Why are you always doing that?" the nine-year old questioned.

Harry, noticing his cousin's eyes on him, turned groggily to look at him and sniffed a little again. "What?"

_"That!_ That sniffing noise – ugh, _don't,_ will you?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry turned away from him and glanced toward the window. Fierce storm clouds were brewing ahead, it seemed as if the weather was due to last all weekend. For this, he was quite relieved, knowing that he wouldn't have to go out into it again for longer than he had to.

He tried to flatten down the back of his hair, with no success. It always stuck up there…no matter what anyone said there was nothing he could do about it. He felt hungry, but he didn't think he could eat anything. So he forced the feeling away and let loose another sniff by accident.

_"Don't!"_ Dudley ranted, glaring at Harry. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing!" Harry quickly retorted, not wanting a fight. He shot a tiny frown to no one in particular and rubbed gently at his stuffy nose. It felt as if it had been plugged up or something, he could hardly breathe through it. He had to resort to taking air into his mouth, which…after a while, was more tiring than it looked.

Dudley's eyes suddenly shot wide. "You'd better not have a cold."

Harry shook his head slowly. "No, no…I haven't," he said.

Dudley said no more, but the last time Harry turned his head, he could have sworn that the chair his cousin had been sitting in was two inches closer than it was that moment.

**_:--:_**

The rain came down just after dinner. It was pouring. Harry at one point in passing the window smiled at it, watching the drops cascade down the panes. At least something was going right for him today…the weather seemed to be the only one on his side, the only one who cared for him.

_Get better, Harry…_ it seemed to say, crying for him against the glass.

Harry wasn't waiting for another confrontation that afternoon, but the state of the sky almost made the rest of the household angry, probably because they couldn't make him finish the jobs due to the showers. So instead, they had worked him to the bone inside, making him do all of the household chores, once Vernon had asked him to hand him his paper that was sitting on the side next to him.

Though he felt like grumbling, Harry did it anyway…hoping his throat would lighten and his head to stop throbbing. All throughout the day, his relatives gave him untidy glares, from the way he looked and sounded caused from the cold.

Dudley made sure to stay at least a metre away from him at all times, and Petunia at one point had become so annoyed by the sniffing that she had insisted on blowing his nose, pressing a tissue there without warning.

"It's not going to do much good up there, is it?" she scolded. Her words could have been kind…if it wasn't for her attitude towards him and her anger with his stupidity of remaining in the garden. Not a decent word was given towards Harry that afternoon, he was only too glad when they left him alone. Their silence was bliss.

As he wiped his nose with the tissue, he heard her give another question. Or more likely, a command from the way she said it. "What are you wearing?" Her nose turned up as she looked down at her nephew.

On top of a thick cotton shirt, a jacket was protecting the uncovered parts of his arms, and he was wearing a new pair of jeans, as his trousers had been completely soaked. His socks were thick and rolled up, and he wore his shoes from yesterday, now that they were dry and not damp at all. Harry feebly stared up.

"You look as if you're ready for a walk!" she exclaimed. "What's the matter with you, are you cold or something?"

Harry hid his grin, not wanting it to be obvious. "A little."

"Well then, don't wear that jacket in here! Have some common sense for once, go and change into that sweater of yours!" Petunia was raging.

Harry, though he couldn't imagine why she had only just noticed the jacket, tried to think of a sweater in his head. The only one he had was a murky shade of Dudley's, which he had only worn once and had hated it instantly. His aunt couldn't possibly be thinking of the same one?

"Which one?" he asked carefully.

"That…grey one, the one of Dudley-poo's! We did give it to you, didn't we?"

"No, Aunt Petunia…" Harry protested, not wanting to find the revolting thing. He leant his head in his hands and gazed down at the table, wishing she had never remembered it.

"Yes, we did – I remember we did!" she snapped back.

"No, I mean…_please_ don't make me wear it."

Petunia straightened up, scowling. "You're wearing it, if you're cold."

"But I don't like it!"

"Do you think that matters? _Go!"_ She ushered him out of the kitchen and to his cupboard, ordering him over and over again to find it, and telling him that he could not come out until he had.

Harry felt as if the world was turning his back on him. He might have been exaggerating a little, but why did he have to wear the sweater? He was managing fine with the jacket anyway; maybe she just wanted him to put it on so that she could gain some form of power over his condition.

All right, _now _he was exaggerating.

He rummaged through his clothes box, trying to locate the sweater. He suddenly felt rather bothered by the three of them, they were all treating everything as a punishment and even though Harry wasn't out looking for sympathy, he wasn't expecting this.

"Aunt Petunia, I can't find it!" he called out, slumping his little arms on the box in frustration. His head was beginning to ache again and he was wondering if it was from the small space. He heard his aunt shout something back, and even though he couldn't hear it, it didn't sound convincing.

Sighing, he got back to searching, wishing glumly that he could start the whole weekend over again, and to have the knowledge of an oncoming storm. Then he wouldn't be sick…then he wouldn't have to hurt so much…then he wouldn't have to wear Dudley's disgusting sweaters…

"What…?" Harry pulled out a garment that he had never seen before in his life. His eyes widening, he stared at it in amazement, admiring it. Nothing of Harry's had ever admired him before, but this certainly did. It was red and gold patterned, with a warm look and feel to it.

He ran his fingers over it, touching the material, basking. For a strange moment, he suddenly felt much better than he had been before. He had never seen this in his life; it was new…how had it come across his cupboard? But then, as he studied it closer, a strange realisation came to him.

_It was Dudley's sweater._ The one he had to look for, yes…Harry remembered wearing the dismal, grey gloomy clothing as it hung off him, dragging him almost to the floor. This looked completely different. But how could it have changed like that, so quickly? He didn't want to know, because he didn't care.

In a flash and with a slow smile, he changed into the sweater, immediately feeling warm and snug. He met his aunt on the way past the hallway and she stared at the clothing. "What's that?" she asked, eyeing Harry with a nervous look.

Harry glanced back quizzical. "It's…the sweater."

"No, it's not! Dudley-kin's sweater was grey!"

"I found this in my cupboard. It's the same one!"

"But it was _grey,_ I'm telling you!" Petunia was breathing all too quickly.

Staring at her, Harry frowned. "Aunt Petunia, are you all right?" She was gazing down at him in a peculiar way and Harry didn't like it. She mouthed openly at him like a fish and pointed down into the kitchen.

"Just get out of my sight," was all she would say. Harry bolted into the room, shooting a confused glance behind him at his aunt, wondering what was wrong.

He was surprised too, it was something strange indeed…but it was a mystery, and Harry loved those. His aunt was treating it as if it were a scandal, as if he had meant to switch…or even change the colours – but how could he do that? He couldn't think how. He grinned a little down at the sweater, brushing the detailed sleeves.

For the first time that morning, he felt protected.

**_To be continued_**

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_(A/N: So…you like? Yes, I felt so sorry for him at the middle, I gave him a happy moment. : smile : He deserves it, the brave thing. Please R&R!)_


	4. The Classroom Event

_The Classroom Event_

_(A/N: I'm really sorry about this update! It's been so long, I'm sorry to have kept everyone waiting like I have. I can only apologise with this chapter! Again, this story hasn't died...my muse has been acting up lately...)_

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The arrival of Monday morning didn't slow as much as Harry had wanted. It was a blistering, chilly dawn of early Spring, and it looked as if it had rained again during the night. The wind had been howling against his window, causing him to bury his face in the pillows, hiding his head and ears from the noise. He still felt awful, with his nose stuffy and his throat and head still hurting painfully.

If he had to admit it, he felt _worse. _He couldn't go to school like this! Aunt Petunia would be mad if she sent him off with a cold...parents would complain and everything. He could just picture an angry mob charging through the open door, threatening with pitchforks and flaming torches...the Dursleys crouching and cowering in the corner...

It sort of made Harry smile a little.

He stretched; the foggy dim greeting his face as he slowly rose from the bed. He grunted, blinking his eyes tight shut as a tight ache rippled throughout his body. The sweater still lay at the edge of his bed, and Harry brightened. He remembered the shocked look on his aunt's face, and he _still _couldn't figure it out.

Since there was no clock in his cupboard at this point (Vernon kept saying he was going to replace the battery...he had most likely stolen it), Harry had to make do with his watch to tell the time. A spark of hope filled him...it was past usual that his aunt normally came to wake him up. Maybe she had decided against school and thought about him having the day off for his condition.

So much hope swept over him that he didn't even _think _about the downside. Ten minutes later the door was being rapped on sharply, and Petunia's screeching voice was there, demanding him to get up and dressed. Harry felt it so unfair that he actually protested against her will.

"You shouldn't let me go, I told you I'm sick! They'll just send me home again!"

"You'll do as you're told!" Petunia snapped. "It's only a cold! What about Dudley? He still has to go, doesn't he? Diddums doesn't make a fuss when _he's _sick! He never pretends like you do – trying to save a day, I won't have it!"

_Diddums? _Harry forced back a laugh with another one of his coughs. "But what about that time when you fed him those carrots?" he questioned back. "You let him stay off school then when he swore you gave him belly-ache!" He could remember the day so well. One of Petunia's old school friends had arrived and had disapproved on Dudley's weight. His mother had tried to make a dent in the works, but came out unsuccessful.

Behind the door, Petunia straightened up as if she had been offended, her lips pursed. _"That _was different – he had food-poisoning! He might've died if he had gone!"

"He never _ate _them!" Harry cried exasperatingly. "He flushed them down the toilet!"

There was a silence.

"Oh, I've had enough of your lies!" she said. "We _all _have! Stop trying to get your cousin into trouble and get up! You're going to school whether you like it or not! And it's not my fault," she added as she turned to leave, "It's not my fault if you cause a sickness to rouse in that school, it's _your _fault for sleeping in the rain! Silly boy! – and if you even _try _to get Dudley sick – there'll be trouble, young man..."

Harry rolled his eyes and flung his head back into the pillow, his head burning and a groan escaping from his throat. He knew it was a hopeless chance, he _knew _it! Offering a thump to the bed, he climbed out and began to change, a level of anger and impatience dwelling through him, though not much because...liking it or not, Harry _did _feel as if some part were his own fault.

Bring on the hate. Those were his four basic word groups for today.

:--:

After emerging from his cupboard, dressed and ready for breakfast, Harry retreated directly to the living room, while he waited for the rest of the household to wake. He had already set everything up for making their morning dish, but again didn't feel like anything for himself. It wasn't the fact that he wasn't hungry (because he was), it was only the matter of keeping it down.

His aunt and uncle shot him a glare as he made his way out of the house with Dudley. Harry could have sworn that Vernon had taken him aside and whispered; "Keep at least two metres distance, son...remember what we talked about...", treating Harry as if he were carrying some deadly virus or if he were a bomb about to explode.

Of course, Dudley tried to pretend to his father that he understood, but was so unsure of where exactly two metres stood that he ran in front, leaving Harry behind to walk on his own. Not that Harry minded this. He preferred it than listening to his cousin blubber all the way about his illness.

He tried to ignore it mostly. The school nurse in passing him gave him a strange look, which didn't make him feel any better. He guessed even from the outside he was beginning to look sick...and he wondered what his teacher would say. His maths teacher, tall and eagle-like, was a strict woman with rather peculiar hair (all of her classes claimed it was a wig), and she wasn't that fond of him, mainly because very 'funny' things tended to happen in her classroom when he was there.

Funny _odd_ funny, not amusing.

He took his place at his seat, trying to be as invisible as he could. He could hear whispering all around him, and passive looks, and he knew that they were talking about him. He must have looked terrible, with his dreary eyes and ever-messy hair...and his pale face. His hands were shaking too.

Dudley wasn't in the same class as Harry. He was in the one next door, which made him feel glad. Otherwise, the whole of the room would have had to take safety precautions from the likes of him, and Harry didn't think he would have been able to bear it.

A golden-haired girl in his class, named Betsy Myers, quickly scooted over to sit next to him. Whenever Harry was teased, or blamed, Betsy always claimed that she felt sorry for him, and made a friendly effort to try and include him in her group, or at least partner him when teams were chosen. She was secretly afraid of Dudley, but tried not to make her attempts popular.

"Hello, Harry," she said.

"Hi," Harry replied, with little enthusiasm. He didn't mind Betsy coming over and talking to him, only today, he wasn't quite in the mood. She seemed to be dancing about before Harry's eyes, and he blinked a bit to steady them. His vision was going a little blurry around the edges too, even with his glasses on.

Betsy frowned. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah – yeah," Harry answered back, trying to sound surprised. "Why?"

"You just..." Betsy paused, hoping to sound out the words right on her tongue. "You don't look very well, that's all." She watched his face fall at the sound of her voice. Obviously she had hit out at a precautious point, and she felt the usual sympathy as he leaned forward and placed his head in the palm of his hands.

"Sorry," she sighed.

"It's O.K."

"Well...are you? Sick, that is?" Betsy turned her head around to her friends, who were giggling and making strange noises that reminded her of gagging, and some were pretending to kiss in mid-air. Betsy scowled at them playfully and turned back.

"I'm fine," Harry said.

"What's wrong with you? Do you have a headache? Is that why you're holding your head in that way?"

"I said, I'm - "

But Betsy never found out what he was, in case she hadn't been listening to him. For at that moment, the door burst open and in walked his teacher, muttering inconstantly to herself, and apologising cheaply to the students about some form of 'car trouble'. It was her same, usual excuse, and she found to her disgust that most of her class went along with her, saying the words.

"That's quite enough of that," she spat, which got everyone else spitting, and mimicking her tight, wiry voice. She was not a very favourite teacher with the children, and even though she was strict, she hardly had any ability to keep full control of her class. She fixed this by dealing punishments out, which kept some silence when she got going.

"Right, everyone. Let's keep our eyes on these exercises," she told them, demonstrating towards the board and then retreating to her desk, fishing out some past reports and marking them in her bold, black pen. In a few moments, there was complete quiet, everyone wisely seeing her temper behind her comic glasses (not to mention the preposterous wig).

Harry found it difficult to concentrate with his throbbing head and aching throat, which was again beginning to act up when he swallowed. Betsy hung over his shoulder every now and again, asking and asking under whispers if he felt all right. It began to annoy him, as he knew that she was only trying to be helpful, but the more she asked him, the more he seemed to remember it, and it only became worse on his senses. He found that it died down a bit if he thought about something else.

"Harry. Harry. Harry…"

"What?" Harry whispered back impatiently. He never quite realised how irritating that was, when people kept repeating one's names over and over. He bleakly turned to face Betsy, whose blue eyes now opened in astonishment. Harry couldn't get around to understanding why she was looking at him like that, but before he could ask, she addressed the class in a very loud voice:

"Gosh!"

Everyone, including the teacher, stopped what they were doing to look at her, their attention easily forgotten on their math problems. Harry stared at her in shock, as she never took her eyes off his face, and her own seemed to show a little sadness for him. After a while a few people laughed to themselves, surprised at the interruption.

The teacher quickly silenced them with a hand motion, and an expression of inner rage. "Yes, class! _Thank _you!" Looking over at Betsy from behind her textbook, she slammed it shut into a thud of the silence, and marched her way over to the girl, not seeming very impressed with her exclamation of astonishment. She stopped in front of her, Betsy now behaving in front of her classmates, and her eyes wide and approachable to the teacher's voice.

"Miss...Myers, is it?"

Betsy nodded fervently.

"Please, Miss Myers, would you be so kind as to tell us...yes, the _whole _class, what was so important that you had to disturb their math lesson?" This was where the teacher became her hawkish self, as her eyes rather narrowed and fixed on poor Betsy's face, and her mouth stuck out very beak-like and dangerous, as if she would snap out at the nearest person to disagree with her.

A row of giggling went up, which was immediately stopped by the teacher's stern look. Nobody wanted to try her patience now, when she was on a roll like this. Betsy tried not to appear as if the staring bothered her.

"W-what I was trying to say," she began, "Is that...um...I think that Harry isn't very well. I said 'gosh' because he...well..."

"Spit it out, girl!" the teacher cried impatiently. It was one thing that she utterly couldn't stand...when people took so long to say something.

"Well..._look _at him, Miss," Betsy merely said, hiding her flushed face from Harry.

The teacher turned, and almost gasped herself. School was indeed taking its toll on Harry, and hadn't been helping him at all. His eyes were bright and glassy, his cheeks pink against his paling face, dreary gaze and matted hair, where he was beginning to sweat at the brow. The teacher knew just as well as he did that he should have stayed at home, tucked up in bed. He looked so unwell that she had to say something.

"Mr. Potter! _Heavens, _child! You're ailing!" she shrieked. "Why have you come to class like that – to _school _like that? You can't work in that condition!"

"I'm fine," Harry said again, though he didn't _feel _fine. He just didn't take to the thought of going home under his aunt's glare, and she would have been put in her place by his earlier words. "It's just a cold, Miss."

"It's more than _that!" _she continued. "Mr. Potter – Harry, I'll have to ask you to go down to the nurse."

Harry sat up. "No, I'm fine," he begged. "Please, Miss...she'll send me home!"

"Which is exactly where you need to be!" his teacher argued. "I can't have you sitting here, spreading your germs to the rest of the class! You'll bring everyone down with flu! No – Harry, you'll go to the nurse, I'll write you a note...and I'll hear no more of your backtalk...your _cheek -"_

At her words, and out of nowhere, a fire suddenly sprang in the corner of the room, burning away the small stepladder the teacher used to reach high places. In moments, the class was in screams and shouts, beckoning to the teacher to turn around and see the ladder, while she was busily writing away.

"Teacher, teacher! The room's on fire!"

It was the smell that caught her attention. Turning around, she produced such a screech that the children were quickly in pits of laughter instead of screams. Betsy Myers squealed, and jumped up, away from Harry. Instantly, the teacher turned on him with a furious glare.

"What have you set off, Harry! Mr. Potter, is this your idea of a joke?"

"No, Miss! I-I didn't!" Harry protested, truthfully. "I don't know...it just started!"

"Typical _lie!" _the teacher snapped. Breaking through the crowds of ranting students, she held out a quivering arm, containing Harry's note to the sanitary. Her writing was wobbly and her expression poisonous. "Go..." she growled. "Go...and don't come back..."

Harry took the note, still in shock from what had happened. He was barely out of the door when the class rioted, bumping the teacher back and forth - and one show-off leapt onto the awaiting teacher's back with a yodel, causing her wig to tumble off. "It's _true!" _he had laughed, and the ringing sound of excitement followed Harry down the corridor, as he made his way to the nurse.

He was still burning with anger and confusion. Another accident...it always seemed to be whenever _he _was in the classroom. He was beginning to wonder if he was a curse, or jinx...something that the children detested against. He hoped that it wouldn't come to that.

The nurse was not happy with him either. She told him he was a foolish boy for coming to school, and why his parents didn't keep him at home like the sensible idea that it was. Harry glumly wanted to say that they _weren't _his parents, they were his aunt and uncle and they _hated _him...but he didn't think it would be wise.

"You're in for a batch of flu, Harry," she said. "I'm going to send a call to your guardian and ask to take you home. You can't keep coming to school like this."

Harry sighed. He should have known from the beginning that the teachers would have sent him back in the first place. He had even tried to tell his Aunt Petunia but she only scolded him for it. Now she was probably going to think this was all his fault too. In gloominess, and frustration, Harry knew that it was, as well.

Petunia arrived twenty minutes later, her handbag swinging wildly over her arm and her teeth grit behind her thin mouth. She didn't look pleased, and she marched over to her nephew as she uttered a low growl in her throat. Harry only exhaled.

"Get your things," she hissed. "I'm taking you home."

**_To be continued_**

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_(A/N: Another chapter done! Please tell me what you think!)_


	5. Unwanted

_Unwanted _

_(A/N: Here's another update for you all! Thanks so much for putting up with me for this story, there aren't many more chapters to go and I'm grateful for everyone who reviews.)_

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"Ignorant...dysfunctional..._insolate_...have the right to ignore me...I'll make sure that you are 'treated medically'...hadn't a clue what that woman was saying...wait until Vernon hears about this..."

The conversation had been the same all the way home, and it only kept spiralling down until Harry could feel his arm being pulled out of its socket with his aunt's rage. He kept thinking to himself; how could it be _his _fault? _He _had been the one who was forced to go to school; he didn't want to come home.

But as his feet grudgingly carried themselves back to the house, a small sense of relief clouded his thoughts. How he wished his uncle _were _here, to yell and shout and cause a fuss, instead of having to sit at home and wait for him in dread.

_He might get it over with and use one of his drills on me, _Harry thought bitterly.

Swinging open the door, Petunia shoved her nephew inside, surprisingly, Harry saw...without managing to crane her neck over the fence for once. She didn't care what the neighbours were up to _this _time.

Her lip curled as she faced him. "Start."

Harry shifted, taken aback by her look. "Start...?" He trailed off.

"Yes! Begin _fully _explaining to me what happened at that school! I suppose you went straight down to that dreadful nurse as soon as you stepped foot inside!"

"No, no, I didn't – I went to Maths!"

Here Petunia snorted, an odd noise as that of a pig, mocking Harry's comment. It took all of his wit and strength to keep a straight face.

_"Maths, _he says! From the riot I heard down that corridor it didn't sound all too peaceful! How anyone can concentrate in that racket I'll _never _know! You must have almost infected everyone, the way they were panicking - "

"Actually," Harry began, "They were - "

"I'M NOT FINISHED!"

Harry stared, his sentence cut short. His aunt Petunia hadn't raised her voice to him in such a long time, the notion almost shocked him. He could only breathe in the silence and interrupt every now and again with a tiny sniff. If she were this angry with him now, what would his uncle do when he got home?

"As I was saying, you should have stood up to the teacher and told her that your aunt sent you here, with no record and intention of sending you home! And don't - " she glared, stopping Harry before he could open his mouth to protest. "You always have to butt in when someone's speaking, don't you? You can't keep that mouth of yours shut for one minute, can you?"

Silence. Harry thought it best to stay quiet for a while. Normally he would feel angry at this point and claim how unfair it was that she wouldn't listen. But he felt too tired to argue anymore. He just wanted to sleep, and hopefully run down that cold.

"You're so rude! No _wonder _that school wanted rid of you!" Petunia went on. "Fancy, making me look embarrassed and like the enemy when you reported that you were unwell! Why, that nurse looked at me as if I were a sly old witch who didn't have a heart for anyone in the world! But no, I forget, you only think of yourself, don't you? Just like your mother...selfish _cow _that she was - "

"Don't!" Harry cried out without thinking. He had already had enough, he didn't want to drag the manners of his parents in on it too. Now his eyes were rimmed and sore, his voice was croakier than this morning.

"Oh, don't bother sticking up for her, that's the _least _you can do!" Petunia roared. "We never get any problems at school from Dudley, it's always you, _you, _YOU! And it's always your silly, self-centred ways that cause all this trouble! And stop SNIFFING!" she screamed, as Harry boldly did.

He frowned, at last having a proper say in the matter. "I can't help it, I already told you. I've got a cold...I just can't help it."

Petunia looked as if she were about to spit, her lips wrinkled so. Then she tossed her head and grabbed Harry by the scruff of his shoulder.

"I think I know what to do about that," she said.

"What?" Harry asked, struggling to keep up and with his feet on the floor. "What do you mean, Aunt Petunia? Where are you taking me?"

"How many times have I told you to stop asking questions?" Petunia scowled, her voice suddenly cold and hard. Her eyes flashed when she spoke; Harry knew that she was indeed so impatient now that she was beyond words. He had seen her this angry before, once when she was arguing with his uncle about 'second hand smoke', and 'too much pollution in the house', back when Vernon had his take of cigars every afternoon.

Petunia marched them into the bathroom, plopping Harry aside and taking heed to exploring the medicine cabinets, searching for remedies. She finally discovered an oily substance, which strongly smelt of fish, and was a faint lime green. She stared at it for a moment, sneered, then turned around.

"Here," she said. "You'll take this, without fuss."

Harry's face twisted into disgust. "What _is _that?"

"It's your uncle's," she explained. "He used to take it when he got those ratted headaches of his, often just after talking to you...here," she poured some of it into a teaspoon kept on the sideboard. It trickled slowly and landed in a sticky mess, reminding Harry of thick pondweed or slime.

The teaspoon was held out to him. "Just put it in your mouth," his aunt said.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "It smells."

"Oh, the taste isn't so bad!" Petunia snapped. "Just open up!"

Reluctantly, he shifted his mouth to accept the spoon and the medicine. Almost at once his face tightened and he squeezed his eyes together, his lips stiff and his throat almost closing off. He gagged, finally finding the courage to swallow.

"Yuck, _urh!"_ he exclaimed. "That's _horrible!" _

Petunia sniffed. "Well, it serves you right for sleeping outside. It's all your fault, you know." She straightened up and prepared to replace the bottle back in the cabinet.

_Harry_ was prepared to believe that, just as long as he didn't have to take any more nasty medicine that his aunt offered him. As her back was turned he tried his hardest to rid his tongue of the taste, shuffling about in the room.

"You can go now," his aunt said. "And stay out of my sight. Go – go to your cupboard if you have to, I just want you away from me, where I can't see you." At Harry's slow pace, she scurried along behind him, shooing him as if he were a pet told to sleep outside. "Well, go on then! Go!"

**_:--:_**

Harry had departed to his bed and had slept for a few good hours. When he awoke, the fuzziness in his head had faded a little but his throat had gotten worse. He had to be dragged out of bed at three o'clock to serve some food for his uncle when he came in, which didn't please him a bit.

When Vernon arrived home, he came in silence (very rare in the Dursley house) and ate his meal, all the while staring at Harry in a malicious way, so such that Harry imagined that he was plotting his death. Vernon looked _murderous. _

Afterwards, he had called Harry into the living room to 'talk'. Harry knew it was serious then. His uncle never wanted to talk to him about anything, let alone ask for some time.

"Well," Vernon growled. "I think you've already figured out by now, boy, your aunt and I are not very happy about this."

Harry looked down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact, for the sight of his uncle's tense eyes were making his own water. "Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"A boy of your age should be able to control a minor case of the chills. Not complain to the teachers that you have been sent to school against your will, because your nose was not treating you proper."

Harry wanted to go against this _so _much, that he almost spoke aloud. But quickly remembering, he stopped himself. Why wouldn't anyone believe him? He was willing to stay there if he had to, anything to serve this at home. It was even _worse._

Here, Vernon smiled. "You might need some of my good old medicine to clear you up good and well - "

"Oh, no, Uncle Vernon," Harry suddenly jumped in. "I've had some."

The sense of glee seemed to fade from the face of his uncle. "You have?" he blustered. "Since when?"

"Aunt Petunia gave me some."

"Oh," Vernon paused, pulling slowly at his moustache. "Well, all right then. I'll see to it that you have some every morning and night until you are feeling up to rights again. Don't give me that look, you know that you deserve it. It's your own fault, and - "

But before he could continue, Harry's voice sprang up. "I – I deserved it?"

Vernon halted, surprised at the squeaky voice of his nephew and yet angered at the interruption that he caused.

"Don't barge in, boy," he said coldly.

Harry couldn't even remember if he had. "I thought you had finished, Uncle Vernon."

"Well, I hadn't," Vernon snarled. "And if you paid more attention to what people were saying, maybe you would notice! It's bad enough that you spent all weekend moping and dosing about, because you had gone and given yourself that bloody cold, but now you expect to be waited on hand and foot..." It was here that he took a breath. "...I won't have it! I won't put up with your little conspiracies that you plot with against your aunt and I, and your poor cousin Dudley! I'll make sure that you stay in your room until you show some sense in getting better again!"

Staring, Harry finally found his voice. "I – I didn't plot this against you, I didn't."

"Pah!" Vernon spat.

"I didn't!"

_Smack. _At those words, Vernon had clouted Harry so fiercely around the head that his nephew saw stars. He hadn't _meant _to hit him so hard as that, but his patience had worn through and he had only intended for a meaningful box on the ears. By the time Harry looked up in a daze, his uncle was scarlet as a pimpernel.

"I'll have no back talking off you, young man," he said, completely oblivious to having given such a walloping to the lad. "Now, you go to your cupboard...and I don't want to see you again until that cold of yours had disappeared, do you understand?"

He wrenched out an arm and caught Harry by the scruff of his neck, leading him forcefully back to the stairs. He ignored his struggles and protests of pain as Vernon's grip became steelier by the second.

"Uncle Vernon, it could take a few days," Harry said.

"Then you'll wait days, won't you? You might even be better tomorrow."

And Harry was back in the darkness again, in the closed room where only he could sit and dream of better times, of other things. The walls were still as musty as he had left them, the bed still as creaky. Filled with frustration and hurt, he flung himself onto the bed, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his temple, which was only making him dizzier.

Harry wondered, _would the drill really have been easier for him?_

He shuddered. He felt cold again from the drafts in the floorboards, and tried to curl up into the blankets. Sleep was the only escape at the moment, unless he wanted to spend another afternoon with the headaches and the sore throats, and Uncle Vernon's disgusting pond slime medicine.

He took off his glasses and placed them aside, and then noticing at the corner beyond his bed, his red and gold sweater from the mysterious weekend. He lifted it up and examined it, admiring it.

It must have been the most beautiful possession he owned. For it was different, like him, and nothing that Dudley had ever touched. Even the smell of the material excited Harry, dusty and old...yet it appeared brand new. Harry thought, _I've never smelt something like this before. _It all seemed special.

He held that sweater as he slept, cradling it in his arms and in a tight clutch, not wanting to let it go. And he dreamt, of a place beyond any other, across lands and through thick clouds of smoke, and above skies bluer than any before. And then they were filled with stars...beautiful things they were, which pointed out a path to a strange and hidden land.

Then Harry was across water, and through brick, and climbing high up flights of stairs. And when he walked through the door at the top, there was a man, with a white beard and startling blue eyes, smiling at him. Then he extended his arms, and said;

_"We are waiting for you, Harry."_

And when Harry woke up to the next unbearable day, he couldn't remember it at all.

**_To be continued_**

**_:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:_**

_(A/N: Feedback would be great! Thanks guys!)_


	6. Visitors Galore

_Visitors Galore_

_(A/N: First up, I the author would like to say: _**I'M SORRY! **_To everyone, I have really let you down with the delay of this story, I know how many of you have been waiting impatiently (and with your e-mails and reviews I can tell that your tempers are running low), and I only hope this longer chapter will make it up to you. _

_If you notice my xanga entries and other scattered journals about the web you'll see why I left it for so long. Plus my Harry Potter craze left me for a while (what must I have been thinking?). Please don't hate me! Well, you can if you want. But I'd prefer it if you didn't._

**BIG HUGS FOR YOU ALL! AND COOKIES! **

**_Oh, by the way, the flu information I found on this site: _**http/www.cdc.gov/flu/keyfacts.htm

_Just that I have no right to claim it, lol. On with the story! _

_**:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:**_

Harry was bored.

It was his second day off school, and he really didn't want to surface from his room. If he even tried to take a step into the hallway, his aunt was not far away to pounce on him like a cat. An angry cat, who would prefer to scratch out his eyes than rather listen to another one of his sniffs or complaints.

He flopped down on the bed nosily, and stared at the ceiling. He clicked his heels together, and sighed. He shut his eyes, and tried to stop spinning.

Nothing worked.

He had to find out how to get rid of this bloody cold. At that moment, he would have given anything to be healthy again. Even if 'anything' meant painting Uncle Vernon's shed – twice. Grabbing a medical book from the shelf, his eyes scanned for 'flu'. That's what the school nurse said, and she was _usually _right. _Usually. _

Harry could read quite well for an eight year old, it had been mentioned.

"Flu...flu...oh. Flu," he choked aloud, finding the page and squinting to see the words.

**What is the Flu? **the passage read.

**The flu is a contagious respiratory illness caused by influenza viruses. It can cause mild to severe illness, and at times can lead to death.**

Harry didn't know whether it was best to shut the book and scream into his pillow, or continue reading. _Death! Death! _It had to be an understatement. Or something that belonged in Sir Gawain's time.

It went on to say:

**While most healthy people recover from the flu without complications, some people, such as older people, young children, and people with certain health conditions, are at high risk for serious complications from the flu.**

"I'm healthy," Harry said. "Not right now, but I am. I think..."

Older people: that didn't count. He wasn't old. Not yet. He had a loose tooth, but it probably didn't match under _losing _your teeth.

Young children: damn.

People with certain health conditions: unless that meant living with the Dursleys, Harry couldn't see that being a connection with him.

**Symptoms: Fever (usually high), headache, tiredness (can be extreme), cough, sore throat, runny or stuffy nose, body aches, diarrhoea and vomiting - **

"Oh, great," Harry sighed, dropping his head into a hand. He couldn't get _that..._

**Some of the complications caused by the flu include bacterial pneumonia, dehydration, and worsening of chronic medical conditions, such as congestive heart failure, asthma, or diabetes. Children and adults may develop sinus problems and ear infections.**

Although this new information discomforted him (he really didn't want to end up with a sinus problem for the rest of his years), he still wanted to know how long this would last, and what to do to get rid of it. He flicked tiresomely through the many pages concerning **Habits for good health **(bit late for that), and found ways to respond to it.

**If you get the flu, get plenty of rest, drink a lot of liquids, and avoid using alcohol and tobacco. Illness can last for up to 2 to 7 days, sometimes longer.**

"Longer, longer, longer," Harry moaned, slamming the book and throwing it onto the end of his bed. "It'll be longer with me, it always is."

Then he hit his head on the bookshelf by getting up too fast. A headache on top of a headache, he knew bitterly, and rubbed it tenderly with a shaking hand.

_Rap! Rap! _went the door. Harry groaned, and covered his ears.

"Come on out of there!" Petunia commanded. "You've been in all morning, you lazy boy!"

Harry felt as if his head would burst from the pain. Blinking and protecting his ears, he groaned again: "Sorry, Aunt Petunia, I've just got up."

"That's a lie!" she snapped. "I've heard you moving around and knocking things over. If that room's a mess you'll know who'll be cleaning it up, don't you? Now come on!" _Rap! _"Get up and get out!"

_Eh, go away! _Harry wanted to shout. _Miserable old bat!_

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

He threw on some clothes, put the book back and stumbled into the kitchen, where he began pouring himself some orange juice. His head felt a little heavy, as if it would fall off his shoulders if he leant over too far. He steadied himself, and downed the glass, pouring another when he had finished.

"Slow down with that juice, boy," Petunia said. "You'll drink it all."

"I need it," Harry shot back. "The book said so."

"Well I'm 'saying so'," was the comeback. "Put it away."

Harry threw her a death glare, and obeyed. _Stupid Aunt Petunia, stupid cold. _He busied himself by washing his glass too, knowing that she would probably spot that with her sharp eyes. He ruffled at his hair, and trundled towards the door.

He hadn't gone far however, when he heard:

"Where are you going? Aren't you going to eat something?"

Harry paused dead in his tracks. Normally, his aunt couldn't care less if she served him a crumb of cake for his supper. He wondered if this cold was causing him to hear strange things.

"Unless it's soup," he played cleverly. "Or it won't help."

"Is that what the book told you? You'll eat what you're given, or you won't eat."

Harry's mouth must have dropped open in protest by the look on his aunt's face. He felt as if she wasn't hearing him at all. It wouldn't do him any good to have bacon and eggs like the rest of the happy family, he needed _liquids! _He wanted to cut out big letters and paste it above the kitchen to make a point.

**HARRY NEEDS LICKUIDS! **

"But...Aunt Petunia - "

He was silenced by the sound of the door knocking away, and turned. Not wanting to wait around for Petunia to say: "Go on then! What are you waiting for!" he slipped into the hallway and slowly opened the door.

A girl stood smiling up at him, holding out a tray of what looked like...well, Harry couldn't quite tell _what _it was. Her blue eyes twinkled behind a sea of golden hair, a pretty smile chipped into her face.

"Betsy!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Bringing you a present," she smiled, holding out the dish. "It's to help with your cold. My mum made it," she added, with an uneasiness that Harry didn't like.

_What, she's not a good cook?_

"Oh. Thanks," he sniffled, staring at the food. "What is it?"

"Spicy beef and lentil stew," she replied. "We looked up everything that could help with a cold, and we found that. Since we had some beef for tea last night, we left some for you." She blushed, pointed and said: "I put some garlic in. It helps with mucus flow."

"Oh," Harry said, a bit lost for words (and feeling a little embarrassed). "T-thanks, Betsy. I'm sure it tastes great." _I hope._

Now it was Betsy's turn to feel shy. She giggled her incessant giggle and turned about on her heels, folding out the creases of her dress. "I thought I'd come and see if you're feeling ok. My mum was going to take me to school, and I thought - "

"What's taking you so long?"

Aunt Petunia peered out into the street, as if expecting Harry had been pulled out from his prison and into the sunshine. She frowned down at Betsy as if she were a snail caught on the road, and said:

"Who are you?"

"Bets - "

"No-one," Harry said quickly, winking at Betsy. "She's someone from school, who came by to give me something, Aunt Petunia." He kept the dish tucked under his arms, away from her gaze and smiled pathetically at her. He tried to show some apology towards Betsy too, but it was hard.

She seemed to understand.

"I'll see you back at school, Harry," she smiled. "My mummy's getting bored of waiting." And she turned and scurried back to the car.

Petunia watched the girl and her mother until they had vanished from sight, and then rounded back on the grinning boy. Her eyes were cast under that dangerous frown that Harry thought best to steer clear from, and he stepped back into the hallway towards his room.

"Who was that girl?" Petunia asked suspiciously. "What did she give you?"

"Nothing, I told you," Harry said, edging closer to the cupboard.

"Don't say that to me! What did she give you?"

Harry didn't know why he said it. Perhaps the cold was causing him to say strange things as well as hear them.

"Don't ask questions, Aunt Petunia," he said, all too quietly. Then he bolted for his cupboard door, leaving her behind with a surprised and furious look.

"_WHAT _DID YOU SAY TO ME, YOUNG MAN?"

Her shouts were unanswered as Harry darted behind the door, locking it tight and breathing heavily (because as we know, his nose wasn't that great at the moment). He just had enough time to hide the stew under his bed before Petunia was back, and beating on his door as if it were a leg of lamb.

"You come out from there, you hear? I've had enough of your cheek to make two, and they'll be over my knee if you don't behave! Potter! _Potter! _BOY!"

Harry sat there, rocking back and forth, his hands over his ears. A tiny smile was hidden on his face, but he could only sit there. As if he had landed himself in an hour of glory but stepping out would mean certain death.

_I could always let the flu eat me alive, _he wondered.

He found he had pressed his sweater against his chest, and he snuggled his warm cheek into it, seeking comfort. The smell lifted him away again, and he stroked it as if it were the dearest thing to him.

_The dearest..._

"I'm not coming out, Aunt Petunia!" he cried, his voice dry and slowly breaking into a million pieces. He sniffed, feeling cornered, as if he were in hiding from some deadly animal.

"Oh, yes you will! Your uncle will soon be home and he'll _pull _this door off its hinges if you're still sitting there!" Petunia was going crazy. The last thing she wanted was for Harry to be huddled inside one room, without food, without water and without completing his chores. They would have to do things for themselves – _oh, unspeakable! _

"Let him then! I'm telling you, I'm not coming out!" Harry didn't know what was coming over him. He would _never _even dream of speaking back so boldly like this. Perhaps this cold was the last straw. He found he wasn't even thinking about what he was saying before he said it.

Petunia stood up straight, a strange sound escaping out of her mouth, which was pursed between her teeth.

"Y-you'll have to come out," she spluttered, "Eventually. Your – your medicine, aha! You can't stay in there and not take your medicine!"

Harry's eyes darted towards the crack of his bed, and slowly he pulled out the dish that Betsy had given him. The smell reached his nose, and he lavished in it. Thinking of that horrible green slime Uncle Vernon made him devour made this seem all the more pleasant.

He sniffed, and a grin came to his lips.

"I think I'll manage thanks."

"Oough!" bellowed Petunia, and disappeared.

_**:--:**_

The stew was downed by teatime, and Harry had to admit it made him feel a little better. At least it left him with a warm feeling in his belly afterwards.

He listened. The house had gone quiet. Dudley had retired to his room and Vernon and Petunia were nowhere to be found. Harry thought they were only discussing his 'behaviour' and 'what should be done about it', or reading _Dudders _a bedtime story.

He sat up, wondering what the time was.

Well that was easy, he had a watch.

Or he _did._

Harry's hands flew to his head at the sight of his bare wrist. His watch! The one thing he was given from his old house after his parents had died in that car crash, his father's watch, was missing! He had promised to take good care of it – after all, it was all he had from them.

_Think, think, _Harry thought, trying not to panic. He had it with him at the weekend; he remembered always looking at it on the Friday afternoon before coming home.

Then, it must be...

...in the garden. When he was painting the shed. In the grass somewhere!

Harry hoped that it wouldn't be damaged because of the rain. Maybe he had enough time to rush outside and find it before Petunia came down for her lemon tea. He really couldn't stand thinking about leaving it another night.

He quietly unbolted the door, peering out into the hallway. No one.

Harry held his breath, finding it noisier now that his nose was dysfunctional. He shut the cupboard up softly, and tried to press as little weight as he could with each foot to the front door.

One small turn and it opened, without making a peep. Yes! The night air greeted him, a cold, windy night it was, and made him shiver. He just wanted to find the watch, and then get back as quickly as he could before anyone noticed he was gone.

The garden seemed larger to him in the dark, and certainly harder to find objects in. After at least ten minutes of looking, Harry began to worry. What if his cupboard had been pried open and had been found empty? He was sure to get into trouble.

"Come on," he muttered to himself. "Where is it?"

"I believe _this_ is what you're looking for, sir?"

Harry stood up, and turned around. There stood a man, dressed in dark robes (well, they seemed dark to Harry because of the hidden moon), and a strange silhouette. _Like he has a horn growing out of his head, _he thought. The face was unrecognisable in the shadows, so it could barely be seen. Harry gulped.

"Excuse me?"

"Your watch. I found it lying here," was the reply.

"Oh." Harry moved closer, reaching in the shadows to receive it, but only seemed to grab air. He moved a few steps nearer, but still nothing. "Sorry," he said, in his young stuffy voice, "I can't see - "

The man seemed to understand. "Here, let me guide you." There was a kindness in his voice as he reached out and took the boy's arm, pulling him into his distance.

Harry gasped, almost jerked off his feet, but felt the metal watch fall into his hand. He could hear it still ticking in the quiet. Good then, it wasn't broken after all. He shivered again, and found his voice.

"T-thank you - "

"No, no, thank _you,_" the man replied, bowing graciously. "It is truly an honour to finally meet you, to even be speaking with you is a principle that only royalty deserves. Mr. Potter, may I ask you how - "

Harry staggered backwards. "You know me?"

The man chuckled nervously. "But of course! You reverence me by merely standing here – and to think, I even touched your hand!" He went off into a fit of delighted giggles, which seemed to disturb Harry a little.

"Well...you're welcome," was all he could say.

"Am I?" the man asked, staring devotedly up from his knees. "Am I _really?_"

"Uh…yes."

"You're nine soon, aren't you? Growing up fast now..."

Harry felt rather confused. How did he know all of this about him? This man was a stranger he knew nothing of. Yet he still knew his age, his name...it was indeed frightening, especially for a young boy. He backed off, not wanting to be rude.

"I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I have to get going now."

The man stood up, sounding as if he had hit the highest jackpot in the world. "Certainly, I keep remembering you're a boy who needs his rest. Bet you're top of the class everyday, working hard, pulling your weight, learning new spel - "

"Thank you," Harry said again. "Thank you for finding my watch."

The man only bowed, and then to Harry's surprise, his horn fell right off his head!

"Oh, my hat," he complained. "This wretched thing doesn't stay on when I want it to..." It sounded to Harry that he was a little embarrassed, and he felt sorry for him.

"Here," he said, picking it up for him.

The man gushed, patting Harry delicately on the head. "You really are such a polite young man," he laughed. "Why, you have probably never seen somebody like me before in your life, have you? An old fool like myself?"

"Actually, no I haven't," Harry admitted. "I thought your hat was a horn growing out of your head, like a rhino."

"Or a unicorn," the man winked.

Harry nodded slowly in agreement, finding him very strange but not wanting to say so. He was peculiar, but kind-hearted. And it felt nice to hear something friendly once in a while.

Then, enlightened at his luck, the man plopped the hat upon Harry's own head.

"Fits like a glove," he whispered.

And, just as mysteriously as he came, he vanished. Disappeared on the night air.

Harry stood alone on the grass, clutching the watch in his hand.

He shivered.

_**:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:**_

_**: To be continued :**_

_(A/N: I promise that I'll have the next chapter done within a year! Lol. No, really, bash me all you want, I know I deserve it. : hides from the rotten fruit :)_


	7. Taking a Break

_Taking a Break_

_A/N: For those of you that have read my profile, you can see that I have been well away for the past few months and have left the site for the time being. I managed to write a few bits and pieces while away however, and now I return to you with the seventh chapter of Orphaned Slave! I can tell you now that there will only be two more chapters after this one, the story is almost over!_

_I promised I would not leave you hanging again, so this time I mean not to dispatch you of a monthly wait. I hope all of you can forgive me :sobs:_

**AGAIN, BIG HUGS ALL AROUND! ON WITH THE STORY!**

**_:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:_**

Was it a dream?

That was the thought that flew in and out of Harry's head the next morning. It was the last thing he had said to himself before shutting his eyes for slumber, and it was the first thing he had wondered the moment they had flickered open. His head was spinning...perhaps from the headache, but he couldn't be sure. Lately everything was beginning to become rather confusing for him.

The letter from his teacher had arrived roughly around nine, informing that a detention was waiting for him the first day he returned to school. It never mentioned inside _exactly _what his punishment was for (creating an unhealthy hazard, or something like that, he couldn't remember).

That was the problem with grown-ups. They could never put things down in black and white for him. Why couldn't she have just said: "Your nephew set school property on fire"?

On the other hand...

He had managed to crawl out of his cupboard to the breakfast table, where he quickly fixed up some leftover pancakes. Although he made much effort when cooking them, nothing could be said for his eating pace.

He picked at them thoughtfully with his fork, thinking about last night. He had put his watch on this morning, ticking like new.

_Then it **wasn't **a dream..._

"What's the matter? Daydreaming?" his aunt had snapped across the counters. "You look half-asleep! Go back to bed if you can't handle the sunshine!"

Harry said nothing. His head felt squashed somehow, as if too many ideas and evaluations were being crammed into a space at the same time. No matter how he tried to find an explanation, the whole prospect sounded unusual, extraordinary, and frightening. Whatever way he tried to view it from, there was still a man, in his garden, in the middle of the night.

_Who knew his name. Who recognised him..._

He pinched his restrain against all backfire, and spoke up in a croaky voice. "There was someone in the garden."

Vernon glanced at him for the first time, squinting across his newspaper with slit, dark eyes and eyeing him up and down. "Say what?" he spluttered quickly.

Harry knew they weren't going to like the sound of this news. They had a thing about uninvited visitors on their property, especially when it came from their eight-year old nephew who rarely lied. He could see that his uncle was pinning all hope that it was a mistake...a silly child's mistake. He carried on.

"Last night. There was someone in the garden. I went out to check. It was a man, with a beard, and a...I – I think it was a cloak."

Now he had caught Aunt Petunia's attention as well. Her just-begun task of washing up the lasting dishes from yesterday's evening immediately slammed to a halt. A dull crash sounded, and she spun in anxious awaiting towards the young boy, her nose turned up in instant questioning and prying. "W-what? What on Earth are you talking about? Someone in the garden? With a cloak?"

She choked a little on the last word.

Harry nodded dumbly, staring at her wide eyes. "Yeah, a cloak."

"What else, boy?" Vernon demanded, his hand slamming on the tabletop as he leaned in closer, his expression stern. "Did he say anything? _Do _anything?"

Harry picked at his pancakes again, finally folding a small piece into his mouth and chewing on it broodingly, his eyes directing their attention to the ceiling. "Well," he said, "he didn't really _do _anything. He mentioned that, well...he said that he knew me. I mean, he _knew _me. He said that it would have been surprising if anyone didn't. Then he bowed before me, and took my hand, saying it was a pleasure to meet me - "

Vernon almost suffocated on a crushed cry of protest. He fell forwards into his chair, his newspaper discarded now on the opposite chair. He shot a worried glance towards Petunia. Harry could see a small trail of sweat beads forming on his brow, but irritatingly, he didn't seem to notice.

"Oh, good gracious," Petunia muttered to herself.

"What else did he say?" his uncle asked again. "What _else? _Come on!"

Harry thought hard, trying not to let the tomato shade of red on Vernon's face distract him from his memory. He couldn't really understand what they were making such a fuss about. It wasn't as though he was describing this person breaking in next door, or something. His relatives were indeed strange...stranger than they made him believe _he _was.

"He, um...mentioned about my school," Harry remembered. "He said that I was probably doing really well."

Vernon coughed again. "Any..._references? _Did he drop any names?"

"Of schools? No, I don't think so."

There was a clash from the kitchen sink. Harry spun around to see Petunia standing quite shakily, with a quivering hand over her heart. He guessed she was relieved, there was a thankful blessing written across her face. He frowned at her, in struck disbelief. They really were acting peculiar this morning.

"Oh, Vernon! Thank goodness," he thought he heard her whisper.

He turned back to his breakfast, shaking his head to himself in disapproval, and slowly cutting off another pancake corner with the side of his fork. It was very annoying to sit there and watch his uncle playing with the corners of his small moustache when he was eating.

Vernon always did this when he was contemplating something, or when he was latching a brainwave to improve his own welfare. He rolled up the newspaper and swatted it down roughly on the chair next to him, reaching out for his teacup and ginger biscuit.

"We should inform the police on this," he said. "Can't have burglars roaming the streets while innocent people sleep, now can we?"

"I think you're absolutely right," his wife agreed, turning herself back to the dirty dishes and pulling up a corner of her rubber gloves. She shook her head of golden hair as she obviously came across something pretty disgusting on one of the crockery pieces.

Harry however, found this out of order and if he had anything to say about it, rather unnecessary. Perhaps the man had merely wandered off and had gotten lost, and it was a primary chance that he had picked up the word 'Potter' from an unknown source. It was quite a popular name.

"That's not fair! He never burgled anything!" he cried out in protest.

"But he might have, if we had kept our guard down!" Vernon retorted. "You see them all the time on that television, they have all kinds of gadgets and whatever, and they have ways to find out who lives where and when they go out – it's always the innocent ones, too! Never rough on the outside..._normal _people! They're the ones you want to watch out for."

Harry couldn't believe the things his uncle was saying. All the man did was shake his hand! He had found his watch, he had helped him! All good deeds, what was there to turn him in for? He was just kind, possibly confused, and very enthusiastic. When he had placed that pointed hat upon his head, Harry had not run away in fear, or shouted at him.

"_Fits like a glove," _he had said. There had been some connection there.

Kind, helpful people – and here his uncle was talking about getting them locked up! Harry had instantly felt a friendly aura circling the garden that night, although it may have been rather strange. Either way, something in his bones told him that _whoever _it was, that stranger...he could be trusted.

"You can't call the police, Uncle Vernon!" he cried.

"I can, and I will! Don't tell me what I can and can't do!"

"But he didn't _do _anything!"

"He could have bloody well jumped in through this window, murdered us all in our beds and then run off and jolly with all of the best silver!" Vernon roared back, leaning in closer and closer with every word he spoke. His face was now so red that Harry thought he saw steam waves ejecting from it.

Petunia let out another gasp at the thought of her silver being stolen. She had a hard time on her hands right now. The next door neighbour (the one to the left of their house) had just come outside to plant his seedlings, and she was inspecting his methods closely. She found it very unmerciful that their tulip blossoms always came out prize-winning compared to her own.

Yet, she was interested in Vernon's argument. She could see sparks flying, oh! The efforts on living on gossip were exhausting...

"That's rubbish!" Harry snapped back, already on his feet and away from the chair. His pancakes had suddenly lost their interest. "You can't call the police just for what he did! I won't let you!"

"You bloody little – oy!" Vernon's cry arose when his nephew took off from his spot, running as fast as he could without drawing breath to the hallway. It was obvious he had gone to snatch the phone – to prevent his uncle from dialling the emergency number and sending the authorities down to arrest an innocent, old man...

Harry skidded around the corner, his chest already tired from the lack of breathing caused by his cold. He found himself slower this morning, possibly because it was early and he had barely eaten, but nonetheless he heard Vernon approach behind him like a rampaging bull when tormented.

It was a flailing maze of arms; hands flew and snatched at each other when Vernon had finally caught him by the scruff of the neck, pulling back hard on his collar. Harry was amazed he had caught up with him. His fingers flew to his windpipe to prevent it being crushed, trying to make some room between his sweater and his skin...

"Uncle Vernon...let me go," he gasped.

"You stupid, _stupid _boy!" Vernon shouted, sounding a little winded. "You don't run this house, you don't pay the bills! You don't tell people what to do! If I want to ring the police, I'll damn well do what I please, without interruption!"

"Uncle - "

"WITHOUT...INTERRUPTION!"

"You're choking me..."

Vernon took a moment to place some slack on Harry's clothes, sweat still bristling on his beefy brow and his throat still hoarse from the running, and the yelling. How dare this boy defy his opinion in his own home? He had no right to be strutting around and dishing out the rules!

They _never _had any problems like this with their Dudders. He was always such a nice, polite young boy.

"We feed you, clothe you, do _everything _for the likes of you!" he almost bellowed. "But you still like to run around and be in charge! You're eight years old – a _child_!A SPOILT, **STUPID** CHILD! You're not even _ours_! We didn't _have _to take you in, we could have sent you to the orphanage! The filthy, rattrap orphanage!"

"I wish I _was _there!" Harry snarled back, the anger from his uncle's words blinding him. He felt a frown on his face, but he couldn't remember pulling one. "I wish I was at the orphanage instead of living with you, you _fat,_ lazy OLD **GIT!"**

The impact was so sudden, Harry never had time to blink.

He felt himself being pushed away and out of his uncle's hands...the sound of Vernon's angered scream, and the metal radiator pole that greeted his nose as he fell. His head jolted back as he collided with it. The carpet was bristly and sharp against his cheek.

"Huuuhh..." he moaned, confused...the base of his nose throbbing numb.

Petunia screamed. She dashed out into the hall, still with her rubber gloves on. Harry looked up at her through watery eyes. She was wringing her hands, and staring in shock at Vernon's sweaty face.

"Vernon, the boy – what happened!"

"Well, he _fell, _didn't he? An – an accident, Petunia – he _fell_!" Harry noticed his voice was now suddenly rather panicky and shrill.

The shock of it all was that Harry couldn't tell if his nose was still attached to his face, it felt so swollen and misplaced. Everything had happened so quickly, he was surprised to even find himself on the floor. He didn't want to move...he just wanted to lie there. He hoped his glasses hadn't broken, for he had heard a faint _snap _as his head had hit the ground.

The strange thing was, that he sneezed. The last thing he thought he'd ever do.

"God, Vernon – he's bleeding! Quick, phone an ambulance!"

Petunia was in a state of panic. She even looked afraid to move him, for fear of making things worse. She couldn't take her stare away from Harry's eyes...pleading up at her for answers to his fall. Green, like Lily's.

_Pleading for help..._

"Ambulance?" Vernon choked out, cutting his wife from her thoughts.

"The emergency number! Oh, be quick!"

As Vernon scurried down the hallway, Petunia folded out a small handkerchief and dabbed carefully underneath Harry's nose, mopping up the blood. The boy shut his eyes as another wave of pain crashed around his head, causing the water in his eyelids to spill down his cheeks. He quite felt sick to his stomach.

Perhaps it was the shock that had taken him, and made him silent. He hadn't said a word since his outrage with his uncle. Behind him he could hear plenty of violent gabbing on the phone – Vernon was probably trying to believe it himself that he had _actually _called the crisis number.

"One of us will have to go with him, Vernon! I just hope that we'll make it back in time before my Dudley comes in from school! He'd be so worried and frightened if he came all alone, and no one was in the house!"

Harry wanted to roll his eyes at the disbelieving humour. Here he was, lying, bleeding and wounded...and all they could think about was Dudley's reaction to the situation. It made him laugh inside. He still was not their first priority. But...perhaps it would have felt strange if they had. He would not have known what to think...it being so unexpected.

It was ten minutes before Vernon returned.

"Why has it taken so long?" Petunia screeched. "All you had to do was type in a number, and say "ambulance please, to this address"...did you forget? Oh, Vernon! I hope you did it right!"

"Well, I panicked," Vernon said. "I asked for the police."

_After all that!_

So, he had got his own way in the end, even if it had not been to the highest victory he had expected from the start. Through mumbles, Vernon quickly told his wife every detail of the phone conversation, as though proud. He explained how he had humbly apologised to the officer and asked for the medicals instead. Petunia was so shaky that she didn't care what she listened to.

Another fifteen minutes passed before the ambulance arrived. Harry lay there, listening to the sirens as though it were a real emergency, or something from the news channel.

He heard the door opening, distressed descriptions from his aunt and uncle, and then someone else stepping into the hallway in front of him. A man, wearing green overalls bent down to lean over Harry, and carefully supported his head on a soft pressure mat beneath him.

Harry stared. Was it him, or did those eyes on this person look exactly like the eyes in his dream? The man in robes, with the eyes that twinkled...and held out his arms to the weary traveller. He had come so far in that journey, through sky, and water, and brick...

"_We are waiting for you, Harry."_

"Can you hear me, son?" the man asked kindly. "Can you hear my voice?"

Harry moved his head just enough to nod. His voice sounded clogged with blood.

"Yes."

**_:To be continued:_**

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_A/N: Heh, I'm such an evil twit. It's not long now before this story is over, I'll be sad to stop writing it but on the other hand it'll give me time to catch up with some of my other works. Again, bash me if you want to, I don't mind._


	8. Blood is Shed

_Blood is Shed_

_A/N: I can't believe this story is nearly over. I don't want to end it as it's one of my favourites I've been writing. Maybe a sequel..but then I'll be hated I suppose. : laugh : Anyway, here's a chapter eight. I haven't quite decided yet if I want one more chapter or two (though in the last update I was certain it was one), we'll see how things go._

**OVER 100 REVIEWS! THANKS EVERYONE!**

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The only thing he had realised he couldn't do was breathe.

The paramedics tended to his nose, pressing a hard lump of cold metal above the bridge where his bone had shattered. The rest was mopped up carefully from his upper lip. It was now stained scarlet.

Through squinting, watery eyes, Harry flung a glance at his bent glasses, twisted from where the frame had connected with the radiator. He felt as though he had been knocked out. He couldn't remember anything...except his final harsh words to his uncle before blackness had erased all memory.

_I called him a git. A fat, lazy old git. _

"Um," he made a tiny noise as the doctor's knuckle pressed into the skin by accident. Every hand on his face was ice cold. He felt stiff, too.

Petunia was the only one stood behind, watching the action. Her hands were now ravelled in her apron, twisted and mangled in a field of cotton. She moved from one foot to the other, as though inspecting the work being done, and if she could in some way, give advice to improve their treatment.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked, expecting an answer.

The doctor sighed. "Broken nose. Quite a bit of bleeding too. He must have taken a hard hit to that radiator." He turned to look at her. "Did the boy fall?"

There was an odd gulping, grunting sound coming suspiciously from Vernon's chair. Petunia was unable to tell whether it was guilt or some kind of message he was trying to send across to her. She took her own road and pretended as though she hadn't heard. The doctor was now staring at her carefully.

Then, a small, weak voice rose from below them.

"By accident," Harry mumbled. "I was running, and I tripped." His eyes moved to stare into those of the adult tending to him. "I didn't know I had...broken it. Is it really bad?"

The second doctor smiled now, his hand patting Harry's shoulder. "Nothing that a brave kid like you can't manage," he chuckled. "Seven or eight years old, aren't you, and not a tear in sight? That means you're made of strong stuff." The poultice was removed from Harry's nose as the doctor laid out small gauze strips along the hall carpet. Looking down made Harry feel ill.

"You'll just have to walk around with a bandage across for a while," was the explanation. "I'm sure that'll be no problem for you, eh son? Plenty of kids like you love showing off injuries, like you've survived a war or something."

"Yeah," Harry agreed uncomfortably.

Petunia was still gaping at her nephew. _He struck him. Vernon struck the boy._ _He never mentioned it, that Vernon struck the boy. _

She had always feared that this would happen one day. Her husband had often become so close to giving Harry a good, hard smack that she had quickly come to hold him back, her heart full of fright for what would happen to them, if he were ever to become hurt from their faults.

_Vernon struck the boy. Vernon struck the boy. He made him bleed. _

_What will become of this? _She sighed. _Wait, it was an accident. Vernon never meant to break the child's nose. Perhaps they won't care. Perhaps no one will. Potter didn't..._

That was the hardest thing to accept out of them all. She was certain that Harry would have blamed his uncle for the misfortune, but he never uttered a name. She could still hear Vernon mumbling frantically from the kitchen. Her thoughts could also have been running through his own head, from the way he was trapped in a panic. It was as if he half expected the 'burglar' to come charging through the front door and throw him by the wrists into the wall.

"Is...is he all right – are you all right?" Petunia found her voice at last.

Now it was Harry's turn to gape, no clarification needed.

"Oh. I'm...fine," he said quietly. Somehow he couldn't look her in the face.

"Do you need anything?"

There was a small silence. "No, thank you."

His words were muffled by another trickle of blood dribbling down into his mouth. The doctor dabbed at it quickly, wrapping Harry's nose with the gauze and making sure not to bring any pain onto the child. Harry really didn't care anymore. Everything seemed so strange. Was he dreaming this?

His eyes kept darting towards his aunt. Open and staring at her unusual behaviour. She was frightened. She was actually _frightened _for him. When had that ever happened before? It was only a broken nose...it wasn't like he was dying. Maybe it was all an act before the doctors...she wanted to act like the loving parent – um, guardian.

His lips were tightly opened as he continued to stare.

"Aunt..."

"There we go, you're on your way," the doctor smiled as he finished fastening the gauze to Harry's nose. They brought forward a small mirror too, just to show the boy that there was nothing to worry about. When he glanced into it, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry out in alarm.

He looked ridiculous.

His nose was completely white, and had seemed to have swollen an extra size, reminding Harry of the garden gnomes in the neighbour's yard to the left. He wanted to touch it, to make sure it was there and real, but then again, he didn't want to. What Dudley would say if he could see him now...

"I know it's a little strange at first, but you'll get used to it," added the second doctor, noticing Harry's glumness. "A few weeks and you'll be able to remove it."

_A few weeks? _Harry's heart dropped like a stone. He would have to go to school...with this great big white mess on his face. The bullies would never have the end of it. They would break it again and again; so that he would wear it until the day he fell over and died.

"Oh. Um..."

"Thank you," Petunia said stiffly. Harry's disappointment was clearly showing.

He still didn't say anything.

"If there are any worries or problems let us know." The doctors picked up their equipment, ruffled the young boy's hair and left in the next five minutes. Petunia saw them off with her squinting eyes, sighed and shut the front door quietly, a tight ball in her throat.

"Have they gone?" Vernon bellowed.

"Yes, Vernon. Long gone!" she called back, a hand pressed to her forehead.

_What about the boy? Doesn't he care? After all, he had caused this._

She was unsure why she felt anger towards her husband about this. Many times they had sent the child to bed without supper, sometimes without tea too. They constantly shunned him, sneered at his suggestions and laughed at his serious comments. But now that blood had been shown...it stunned her. It had been an accident, but...Vernon hadn't been there to help clean up his mess.

She took a few steps back toward the hallway, her knees shaking.

"How are you in there, boy?"

Harry was now standing against the stairs, quite ready to run into his cupboard – the door was open a crack. He had his back turned from his aunt, so as to hide his padded nose. He was hunched over a little.

"My glasses are broken," he said in a tiny voice.

Petunia swallowed. "Can't you just fix them with tape like always?"

"No, it's different. They're not snapped, they're bent. They won't fit."

There was another long pause. Petunia wanted him to disappear into his room, just to save the uncomfortable waiting. But he still stood there, hunched over sadly, and now she could see something being played with in his hands. She looked over at the radiator, and imagined her own nose being smashed against the rim. A hand fell over it at the thought.

"That's not your fault," she snapped. "You'll just have to make the best of it, while you can."

"But they won't fit, Aunt Petunia. I can't see - "

"Well then, you'll get another pair. Don't be difficult."

Harry finally sighed and turned to open his cupboard door wider. There were a few lone blood stains on his baggy shirt and a darkened stain past his lip that the doctors forgot to clean. Above the bridge of his nose, there was a swelling, which Petunia knew would eventually turn the undersides of his eyes black.

Those eyes that had stared at her as he had fallen. That had been the first time since he had been dropped on their doorstep that she had seen her sister's light. It was as though she were inside him, calling out. It had scared her.

_He's in your care now, _she thought she heard Lily say. _I'm trusting you with him. _

"Your uncle didn't mean to break it," she said abruptly. "You know that."

Harry said nothing. He didn't even go into the room.

"He only struck you because you shouted at him. You made him angry."

"He shouted too," Harry muttered back.

There was another pause. Then, "Why do you have to argue with him? Just accept his decisions. We all do. He only said he was going to call the police on a burglar. Do you want to be robbed of house and home?"

"He wasn't a burglar," Harry said. "I...I don't know what he was."

At that moment Petunia wanted to tell him _exactly _who that person was. It would have made things so much easier, but she held herself back. From the other room she could hear Vernon getting up and moving about towards the kitchen. She glanced at her watch, it was still early morning.

"Why don't you go to bed?" she suggested.

Harry really didn't want to. He had just left his bed not two hours ago, and didn't feel tired at all. Going back felt like a silly idea. But then again, he didn't like the idea of wandering around, showing off his nose. He would have liked to see his uncle's face though, and the extent of his guilt.

He went without a word, making Petunia feel worse somehow.

Vernon toddled into the hall, noticing the empty corridor and sighed to himself. "I thought they were going to be here all morning," he said gruffly. "Don't these people understand that we also have lives? They probably spent more time fixing up his nose than actually going to a murder scene or something - "

"I thought it was more than his nose," Petunia interrupted. "I thought you had smashed his skull." Her face was white.

Vernon blubbered a little, and gulped. "You know as much as I do that it was an accident, Petunia," he gasped. "You don't think they'll - "

"Ssh!" she broke him off again, indicating to the cupboard door. "I hopefully doubt it. It was a mistake."

They exchanged glances through a short silence.

"Wasn't it?"

"Yes – yes, of course it was! What kind of man do you take me for? But did you hear what he called me? Did you?"

Yes, Petunia had. Her eyes watched the bedroom cupboard again.

"He's becoming a rebel, Petunia – at eight years old! You'd think that the way we treat him would turn him to rights, pay us respect! What's the boy going to be like at ten, and twelve? It has to stop!"

Petunia nodded, barely listening. She turned back to the kitchen with a swish of her head, and finished washing the dishes, her rubber gloves becoming covered in soapy water. She didn't even look out of the window to see the neighbours peering back at her, wondering why the doctors had visited.

The child had a cold, and now this. It was strange that everything happened to him. He could be cursed. She shivered thinking about it.

_Lily was strange. And so is he. She's passed on her spirit in him. _

_What if Vernon's right? What if he finds out who he is? He'll turn on us..._

_Why did he have to be dropped on us?_

_Why couldn't he have gone too?_

She felt sick. The last thought left her with a lump of metal in her throat. Maybe it would have better for all of them if he had died with his parents.

She moaned to herself, wondering if anyone could hear her dark thoughts.

_**:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:**_

An hour or so later, she went to see if he was still awake. She peered through the cracks of the door and saw him reading by light bulb, looking intent and with his legs drawn in tightly. She suddenly had a strange urge to...do something. But what had she done wrong? Nothing. She could have left him there bleeding. But the paramedics were called.

"Are you asleep?" She pretended she couldn't see anything. She was happy that her voice sounded gruff and uncomforting.

There was no answer. She saw him look up, but then turn back to his book. She never moved from the door.

"Is it true?" he mumbled out, ignoring her. "What Uncle Vernon said?"

"What rubbish are you on about now?"

"That he was going to take me to the orphanage. He said so. He said that's what you were going to do when I was brought here. You don't want me."

It was as though a firework had set itself off in Petunia's head. She swallowed. "Quiet. Don't talk about things that you don't understand."

"I meant what I said too," Harry replied, his voice growing a little louder, but still remaining calm and sullen. His aunt saw him look deeper into the pages of his book. "I wish I _had _been taken to the orphanage. They would have treated me better. Everyone hates me here. I thought family were supposed to love you."

More silence. Petunia bit her lip. Words were no option anymore.

"I'm not loved here. I'll...I'll run away or something. I'll run away and find someone who cares about me. You won't care, no one will - "

"That's enough!" Petunia snapped, her heart beating with fear. She felt herself slipping into a panic, similar to the ones her husband had. Everything he was saying she _wanted. _So why was she so afraid of him saying it?

Her hand was clenched and throbbing. She brushed some hair from her forehead, leaving a wet, soapy trail. Harry had fallen quiet again.

"While you're in this house, you live in this house, and you stay in this house," she said slowly. "If I or your uncle catch you running away, you even _think _about it, and we'll lock you up until you've forgotten how to. You will learn from discipline, mark my words. I won't have some brat growing up in this house who wants everything his way. I won't!"

"But you are!" Harry protested, his voice strangely tight. "That's Dudley! That's Dudley! I _never _get _anything _my way. How can you say that, Aunt Petunia? It's so unfair!"

"HUSH!" Petunia was pressing her hands roughly over her ears, her teeth grinding together in frustration. "Please, I can't take anymore of your groaning! And your voice is sending me mad, hearing you speak in that clogged way! You never even apologised to your uncle for calling him such names! Disgraceful child..."

Harry couldn't believe it. "But he said things to me first!" he cried. "And then he hit me! _He's_ made me talk like this!" He hated the fact that tears were welling up behind his eyes. He plunged his nose further into the pages of the book, to hide himself away from everything.

"I hate him, Aunt Petunia."

"Why you despicable – how _dare _you! How dare you say that? He took you in!"

"He doesn't love me! Neither do you! I hate...I hate everything!"

Petunia was stunned to see a tear softly falling down his cheek. The last time she remembered seeing him cry in front of her was probably when he was a baby. She never even thought about it – she just supposed that he had grown with no emotional sadness...unlike her Dudders. She saw him wipe his nose, and then wince from the pain.

"I want Mum."

Petunia stumbled around on her feet. "Well, she's not here. Neither of them are, how many times do I have to say so? You're old enough now to understand this. Stop snivelling and get to bed. The doctor says you need rest. So rest!"

She left. She left with a haunting pain in her heart.

Harry wiped away his tears, frowning at the closed door, and placed the book back onto the bed, underside up. If it wasn't for the thought of food, he would have gladly made that tiny room his forever home. The thought of leaving it only left open options for disaster.

He sighed, lying himself down onto the pillow, and shut his eyes. His nose throbbed constantly. It felt worse than it did when he had a cold. How tiresome it was getting to breathe only through the mouth. He scrunched his eyes tight when a light tapping came into hearing.

"Go away," he said aloud, thinking it was the door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Please...go away."

Tap. Tap, tap. Tap.

Wait. It wasn't the door. It didn't sound the same. It sounded like...glass.

He sat up in bed, listening hard, a tremor of interest and excitement rushing through him. He looked around, thinking it may have been an animal or something, but then it came again. That sound...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone was at the upstairs window.

**_: To be continued :_**

_A/N: Cliffhanger: sigh : I know you hate me. Please, please, please R&R!_


	9. Magic Moment

_A/N: Here it is, the second to final chapter of Orphaned Slave. I still have no idea how the response is going to be, as I've left this story in the process of over a year now with no new addtion. I'm sorry for the delay, I really am, but I would not have been so undedicated without a reason, and this year has left me with many serious ones. I'll try and hold the promise to make the last chapter sooner, and worthwhile. Thank you to everyone that has been keeping up with this story so far, and their patience for all the delays. Sorry again. _

_Magic Moment_

Bolting upright in bed, Harry threw off the covers and pressed his ear to the cupboard door. There it was, the noise hammering down the stairs. Excitement and fear tore through him. He didn't know why.

It was six-forty when he pried the door open and checked about for any sign of movement. The faint echo of a television hit his ears from the living room. He took this as his chance to sneak down the hallway and step quietly up the steps, peeping around the corner before heading towards the sound.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. _

He almost leapt out of his skin when he saw someone there, knocking away at the pane. The man's face lit up when he saw Harry was looking at him, and beckoned him over with fervour. Uncertainly, the boy made sure that no one was lingering upstairs and opened the window a crack. How strange this was!

"Hello there," the man whispered. "I am so sorry...I frightened you."

"Well, yes...but it's okay," Harry answered, very surprised, but also very thrilled. The man from a first impression had a friendly looking face, with crinkles around the eyes, from smiling a lot. He reminded Harry a little of the man in the garden who had found his watch.

"It is a little late, isn't it? I'm sorry if I woke you up, but I had to wait until dark...I forgot at the last moment that young children need sleep..."

"Oh, that's okay," Harry said again, taking a while to draw all of this in. "I...wasn't tired."

He opened the window a little wider, and almost leapt out of his skin again. The man's eyes and mouth were round and hanging open in shock. He choked on a tiny croak of horror as he stared at Harry.

"Shrouds alive!" he exclaimed. "What have you done to yourself, boy? Your nose!"

Harry faltered on a pause. He had forgotten all about the covering on his nose. He touched it, as though hearing of it for the first time, and moaned uncomfortably at the touch. He coughed and grimaced.

"Oh, this was...an accident. I fell and hit it - "

"Is it broken?" The man sounded very worried.

Harry nodded. "I can't breathe very well through it. That's why I sound funny."

The man was grumbling under his breath. Harry thought that he could see something being wrung through his hands, but it was too dark to tell. He sighed heavily and looked back into Harry's eyes.

"Did those Mug – did those people inside that house do it to you?"

"No!" Harry said, too fast and too urgently. "They're not mugs, and...it was an accident. I fell and hit it on the radiator. It's fine, really..."

The man was peering at him, as though inspecting it. "Do they have any part in this heinous crime?"

Harry choked on a grunt. Was he being ignored on purpose? Could this person somehow see through his fake stories and lies? There was something unexplainable about him. He longed to lean out further and see how the man was this high from the ground, but he was being blocked.

"There is no - "

"This is disgraceful. How could they let this happen to you?"

"Well, it _was _an accident," Harry said for the third time, wishing he could be allowed to finish speaking once in a while.

"Perhaps, but you were under their care," said the man angrily. "How could they let this happen...to _you? _You, of all people!" He coughed, having said all of this in one breath tired him a little.

Harry looked down at the pane and shut his eyes. "I'm nothing special."

There was an uncomfortable moment. The silence was broken by the low chuckling from outside, and the faint coughing. Harry didn't look up, or say anything. He wondered a little why he was being laughed at...he didn't think it was all _that _funny.

"So modest, aren't you?" the man laughed.

Harry lifted his head up and frowned. "Not really."

"Is this what they've been telling you? That you're nothing special?"

Harry laughed weakly. "It feels like that."

"Most of the time?"

"_Every _time."

The man cursed. Then apologised. "I am sorry...I didn't intend for that to - "

"It's fine," said Harry, trying not to sound as though he was laughing.

"Do they plan on taking you to a hospital of some sort?" asked the man, leaning over the window pane as though trying to see if there was anyone there.

Harry shook his head and did the same. "I don't think so. They called the doctors around here and they did everything. I don't think there's anything left to do."

There was a lengthy silence which was broken by the man's faint coughing.

"How long?" he asked, "until you are well?"

"They told me it could take weeks – a few months," Harry replied.

The awareness of what he would have to put up with had only just come to mind. A few months. He would have to go back to school, with this on his face. Everyone laughing at him; more complaining towards his guardians. He couldn't see any hope of it stopping. His aunt and uncle were certainly not going to take it easy on him either.

The man shook his head sadly, as though receiving Harry's thoughts. "Not a pleasant time that lies ahead, is it? You know, it is terrible the way you are treated. So young, and such a high standard in a person, too!" He chuckled at the confused look on Harry's face at the last comment. "You should fight back."

"Fight?" Harry squeaked.

"Give them what for! Show them who is boss! After all, without you, they probably wouldn't be here - "

"I – I'm _eight_!" Harry protested wildly, heat growing over his face, wanting to flap his arms to prove his point. He covered his ears with the base of his hands and groaned softly. "Ohh – why does everyone keep saying these things to me?"

Now the man seemed frightened. "I – I have made you uncomfortable..." he stammered, eyes wide.

"No, it's not - "

"I should be punished... I have no right to give orders towards you, I should be taking them... all of what you have brought me and I fling it back into your hands like it was _nothing_! I, among others owe our lives... and listen to me..."

Harry stared at the man for a long time, feeling his heart beating soundly in his torso. What was he talking about? What he had... _brought _him? He was in his debt? Since _when_? This man was a complete stranger.

"You don't owe me anything," Harry said, his eyes darting to the side. It had occurred to him for the first time how this man was actually holding himself up... they were on the upstairs hallway, after all...

The man's eyes brimmed with tears. "How can you say that? So kind..."

"But," Harry began, trying to find the right words without offending anyone, "I – I don't even... know you. How can you owe me something when I've never met you before?"

He watched the strange man daub at his eyes with his handkerchief, and felt his head spin. This wasn't another dream, was it? Was he somehow connected to the other man in the garden, who also knew a scary heap of information about him?

"And he was... bowing," Harry said aloud, "to me."

"What?" the man asked, through a case of sniffles. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Oh," Harry stuttered quickly, not realising that he had spoken at all, "nothing."

He jumped as the man placed trembling fingers on his shoulder, almost as if he were daring himself to do it. He suddenly seemed a complete wreck, overthrown with emotion. Through his confusion, Harry felt sorry for him.

"You have done so much, and it is time someone did not take it for granted," the man said softly, strenuously gazing into Harry's eyes.

Harry swallowed. He was not familiar with that phrase. "What does that mean?"

"I should not be doing this for you," the man whispered, in an equally shaky voice, "but I think it is high time that you are given the respect you deserve." He kept looking back over his shoulder, in case anyone was watching him. His fingers were still trembling as he reached out towards the young boy's face.

Harry moved back. "That's all right..."

"So unselfish... wanting to suffer the pain alone - "

Violent impulses shot through Harry's legs _run, run down the stairs! _, but he was frozen in place. Was this really happening? Why did the man want to touch his face like this? Suffering the... pain... alone?

"I... don't understand," he began, "Wait – wait! My nose, its broken – please, don't touch it, please!"

He let out a gasp as he felt something cold and solid touch the bridge of his nose, and he shut his eyes firmly from fear, preparing himself for the pain that was to hit. A heat as hot as a tiny flame spread through the tip of his skin, and he felt as though his face was stretching – pulling…

"Why...?" he began, but was stopped by a sudden click, and then the movement had stopped too. He opened his eyes again, and found himself facing away from the window. In the strange sensation, he must have been spinning around, lost in the questions and his blind daze. Slowly, he removed his hands from his cheeks. He hadn't even noticed that he had been gripping them.

Something felt different.

He rushed to the upstairs bathroom, desperate and frightened. What exactly had that man done to his face? Nothing could be worse than going to school with a...

Cringing at the very thought, Harry carefully peeled off the bandages. He half expected to see a mangled mess of skin, lumps and blood. But, as the wrappings slipped away...

"No way," he whispered.

He pressed one hand firmly against the mirror, the other flying to touch his nose. It... was healed. Completely healed. No markings, no funny shifting of the bone – nothing. Harry couldn't even tell that he had broken it at all.

_A miracle? Some kind of trick? _

Perhaps that man had some strange kind of mystical power about him... like the fortune tellers the children had mentioned at the fair. Or... a magician, or some witch doctor, or even... even – but _it couldn't have been. _Uncle Vernon had said that there was no such thing, but – but –

_A wizard? _Was it really possible?

Harry breathed slowly, tension brewing inside of him. Had he been healed by some sort of spell? Is that why the man said that he wanted to help him? He touched it again, expecting aftermath pain. None came. _A wizard..._

"Magic?" the boy whispered to himself. It sounded ridiculous, but... he couldn't think of any other explanation. To his surprise, he felt more excited than frightened now, despite the fact that... _a possible wizard... _He felt a flow of heat wash over his skin, making his feet feel numb upon the bathroom floor.

Then he stopped, clutching the edge of the sink in his surprise.

He had just breathed... _through his nose._

It took a while for Harry to adjust to this new feeling, his given sense returning to him after such a long absence. Everything felt so new and fresh... it filled the boy with an overpowering urge of joy, relief, and confusion all at once. He took in one long breath through his nostrils, catching the lemon in the bathroom cleaner and the distinct smell of roses from the garden.

It all felt strange. Strangely wonderful... that he was cured of his cold, just like that. He wanted to shout with happiness and just stand there in silence, all at once.

All he could think of was that somehow – and it was possible, that... magic may have been behind his new healthiness. And all because of that man - perhaps even the same man who was in his garden the other night (it had been very dark), had just –

Harry felt his feet leading him in a dazed walk back to the hallway window. He felt dizzy, but not in a sick way... or was it?

"Thank y - "

The boy stopped mid sentence when he realised there was no one there to hear his gratitude. An open window. Harry leaned out over the side, wondering if the man was just hiding under the sill. Nothing.

He sighed unhappily, drawing himself back into the house. So quickly he had left, almost as much as he had arrived. Harry reminded himself rather miserably how busy he probably was. Probably no time for goodbyes, either. In his gut, he wished that he could have stayed a little longer. For one second, his stomach was filled with the common feeling of absence.

The absence of knowing that his chance of a change – his _freedom _(and he didn't know why that he used that word, because that was how it felt) had been waiting there, summoning him to take his chance. And he hadn't.

"_I should be punished... I have no right to give orders towards you, I should be taking them…all of what you have brought me and I fling it back into your hands like it was nothing! I, among others owe our lives..."_

Him? Gawky Harry Potter, _giving _orders? He couldn't remember _giving _anyone anything, especially something as important as others owing their lives to him. Maybe the man was mistaken. Maybe it _was _someone else. Maybe Harry had nothing to do with any of this, and the man was only confused and old, and had a short memory or something.

It was because of _that, _Harry understood, placing his fingers over his forehead. His scar caused much attention in strangers. The man's eyes had been on it the moment he came to the window. Then he was right. It was Harry he had wanted to talk to. He saw the scar and said nothing. Only stared... as though he had proven himself right.

What exactly was it that this man owed him? It could be anything. _Anything. _

"But," Harry whispered to himself, thinking back to the man's words again, "what's so great about... _me?_"

Nothing but silence, except for the low, dull whistle of the wind, replied.

**_:To be concluded:_**

_A/N: Not so much of a cliffhanger this time.. I would not have been forgiven if it had, lol. Read and review if you wish, I appreciate every one of your comments, and believe it or not, even the ones that pester me about my laziness help me in a way. Thanks everyone!_


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